Perspective
by Siachi
Summary: An Elf finds Hobbits really can cause problems, as a bunch of misfits struggle to survive at the edge of civilisation.
1. Having a Drink in the Shade

From the outside you couldn't tell much about the Naked Elf. It stood in the town's square, a building slightly larger then the wattle and daub hovels surrounding it, constructed out of sturdy oak logs from the nearby forest and roofed with straw. 

Inside there was a listless atmosphere about the place. Dust motes danced in the hot, still air, pierced by the rays of the afternoon sun that split through the filthy windows set high into the walls. The dust settled on the massive rafters where the spiders scuttled uninterrupted by any cloth or brush. From here you had a bird's eye view of the hall below. At one end of the hall most of the club's benches and tables lay stacked against the wall awaiting the evening crowd. Shielded by the pile was a small panelled door, firmly shut. The floor of the hall, cleared of the furniture had just been freshly strewn with rushes and was bare of anything else. Set into one of the sidewalls was a small bar at which a group of patrons had clustered, like animals round a drinking hole.

Near the bar, and opposite its massive double-door entrance a table had been pushed out. On top of it stood a female Elf, singing beautifully, and carefully accompanying herself on a lyre. Alone amongst the patrons of the bar she was clad in a loose dress, with her instrument's satchel and a sheathed rapier sitting by her feet. Her black hair complimenting her almost grey skin, flowed loosely down to her waste. Her only audience in the bar was another Elven woman, although she was of surface blood, clad in a purple robe and standing by the table singing with the musician. A black cat rubbed itself round her feet, purring.

Carmina the bard brought her song to an end and flicked her white hair out of her eyes in annoyance.

"I don't know why I bother," she pouted down to the Unknown Necromancer "It's not as if that lot ever pay any attention when I play the sagas. Not like proper heroes."

"Well I thought it was beautiful Carmina, it took me right back to home. In any case can you could just imagine the boys there being in the song?" replied the mage.

They shared a giggle over the idea of the huge form of Urg shambling out over the treetops in search of his lost bearded love.

* * *

Zorro Arsesmacker looked up at the sundial and yawned. He was a small Dwarf, even by their standards, but made up for it in girth. His face was sallow and scar-crossed, his nose broken in a dozen bar brawls, along with his front teeth. A massive orange Mohican ran along his otherwise shaved head, greased into place every morning. With it came a beard that looked like an accident with a porcupine, erupting along his chin and lips. Twin eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep and too much drink, twitched and jerked about nervously like a hobbit on a bad acid trip as they turned to watch the bar. His lip piercing, a chain that ran to his nose, trembled as he snorted in disbelief at the sight of the barman.

He was a spotty teenaged Hobbit who been vacantly polishing the same glass for the past twenty minutes as he gazed up at the bard wailing away in the corner. Zorro sighed. Personally he couldn't see what hobbits and humans found so fascinating about elves. He preferred his women three feet wide, with a firm jaw, a hint of aftershave, and a chest you could crack walnuts between.

"Oi, Almonds!" he bawled, waving his pot helmet at the hobbit, "Wake up and get us another one yer lazy Hobbit git!"

Grumpily the hobbit picked up Zorro's helmet and moved back behind the bar to fill it up.

Zorro turned back to the sundial. Next to him the massive leather-clad figure of Urg the barbarian stirred suddenly as a coherent thought arrived. Turning his massive grey head the Half-Orc glared down at his smaller partner, whom he disliked intently.

"Wherez da boss?" he rumbled, absently stroking the small mouse-like doll hung from a thick iron chain around his neck.

"Outside somewhere, probably sellin' his stash of mushrooms," replied the Dwarf, reaching forward for his beer filled helmet from the barman and swigging from it.

"That's if he's found it yet o'course, he continued reflectively. "Silly bugger was late out this mornin', searchin' his room for where he'd left the damn things. Big deal he said. Gonna make a packet if somebody doesn't knife him for them first".

The Half-Orc's lips peeled back to reveal his fangs as they shared a smirk at this happy thought. Neither belonged to a race that had much love for Elves of any stripe, particularly not the bold and flamboyant Noldorian race to which their boss belonged.

"Pointy-eared moron," thought Zorro as he continued "And he said we're to stay here with the Drow and that mad witch till he gets back like."

The barbarian nodded and settled back on the creaking bench, leaning his head back against the bare wall. He was a huge creature at nearly six foot ten, bulging with slabs of thick muscle, his veins standing prominently out in an intricately woven pattern under his grey skin. Despite the heat he was roughly clad in animal furs, though he wore a chest plate of bone armour concealed under them. Necklaces of bone white ivory draped his wrists, the remains of seals he'd killed whilst adventuring in the far north. Filthy black hair lay matted over his bare head and his eyes glowed redly in the gloom. Next to him lay a tremendous great axe, his favourite weapon, though he always carried others on him, usually a dagger plus a sling for distance work, like most sensible folk in Lower Wyrmling.

The sound of the double doors being opened caused him to glance over his shoulder. A cloaked figure with its red-blond hair bound upward into a topknot hurried in and slammed them behind it. Just before the door closed it was possible to hear a torrent of hysterical invective in heavily accented Elvish, which was abruptly cut off by the closure of the portal. The figure paused for a moment, adjusted its weather beaten cloak and ran a tired hand through its hair before turning to face the bar and its occupants. Urg caught sight of a green-eyed elven woman, pretty, with a scar curving smoothly down her left cheek. The face was framed by a mass of curly red-blond hair above, and a leather armour clad body below, the tightness of the armour revealing a figure of some heft.

The Elf scowled as she caught sight of Carmina, then, turning away from the Half-Drow she spotted the two drinkers sat at their table. Arching eyebrows and a twitch of her pointed ears briefly signalled unconcealed elven disdainful amusement at the sight, and then she became more purposeful, and strode briskly towards the pair. Zorro spat onto the rush-strewn floor.

"Here comes trouble," he warned heavily, taking a last big swig of root beer from his pot helmet. The Half-Orc didn't reply. Instead he reached down and picked up his huge double-edged Great Axe and ostentatiously began cleaning his black fingernails on its spike.

* * *


	2. Ice Queen meets Ice Age man

Ieannia slammed the door on the ranting priest outside and slumped against it, her forehead resting on the cool wood. She closed her eyes, inwardly cursing her decision to stay in Lower Wyrmling. She could be in Carasgorn by now, wandering peacefully through the fir and pine. Instead she was stuck out here in a festering backwoods hamlet, where the main pastime of the locals was the growing and distribution of 'Boom-Boom buttons' or 'Magic Mushrooms'. There weren't any true Sindarians to talk to, and she'd just had to listen to her native Sindarian, the true tongue, being mangled by a half-bred lunatic who howled out his message every morning to a deserted plaza.

"Focus woman," she muttered, remembering her mission. This was no time for distant musings. She straightened up, adjusted her cloak and flicked her hair behind her ears before turning round, searching for her targets. Her gazed passed over Carmina, and she felt the familiar flash of resentment and irritation at the sight. It wasn't just the fact that the half-breed's combination of exotic features, dark skin and stark white hair rather threw Ieannia into the shade, but also her personality, which combined child-like naivety about mortal nature with an obsession with music and worse, a complete lack of discipline. How the Half-Drow had been allow to live by its parents was a complete mystery to Ieannia.

Her gaze swept on and found who it was searching for. She felt a brief flash of lofty superiority for the two figures in front of her before admonishing herself.

"They are what they are," she thought as she hurried forwards "And it's not their fault they've turned out as they have". She felt a pang of guilt as she remembered her Aunt's principles of enlightened tolerance towards the lesser races. Pulling herself together she held up a hand in greeting as she approached the pair.

"Wotcha slim," slurred the Dwarf in greeting before belching to himself. Next to him the Half-Orc rumbled something she construed was a greeting and carried on cleaning it's nails on it's axe.

'Terrible way to treat a weapon,' thought Ieannia sniffily as she pulled up a chair and sank down stiffly.

"What can we do for yer?" inquired the Dwarf with exaggerated pleasure, peering at her with the reddened eyes of the functioning alcoholic. Next to him Urg yawned massively, revealing rows of serrated teeth, and stretched his hulking frame out, to the popping of stiff joints. Ieannia refused to be intimidated by the display and scowled at the Half-Orc.

"Our mutual friend," she began grandly.

"Who?" interrupted the Dwarf.

"Woz mutural?" rumbled Urg, his brows wrinkling in a huge intellectual effort to understand Common, not his natural tongue.

Ieannia's already delicate temper frayed still further. Couldn't these two imbeciles perform the simplest task without interrupting her? All they had to do was sit and listen for Ellonna's sake!

"I meant our employ-,"

"Ah, she meant the boss!" said the Dwarf in tones of revelation to his partner.

"Why didn't she juz say so den?" asked the Half-Orc grumpily "Insteada bringin' dis mutteral bloke inta fings."

Ieannia closed her eyes again and began to recite to herself "I am an Elf, I will not let them get to me, I will behave rationally and thus set a superior example to others...sod it!". She drew her dagger a slammed it point first into the middle of the table where it sank into the wood, quivering.

The reaction of the other two, now in the middle of a debate on how 'mutual' was pronounced was immediate. The Dwarf rolled off his chair to the left and whirled away, fumbling for an axe that wasn't there. The Half-Orc moved from sitting on the bench to a defensive crouch with his axe raised without seeming to move in between the two positions.Ieannia was impressed but didn't let it show.

"Torfindel," she said, maliciously emphasising every word, "Would like you and the girls to meet him outside in Central square," here she glanced at the sundial "10 minutes ago. He says he's got some bad news, but that he may have a job for us."

She saw the immediate quickening of interest in the Dwarf's eyes at the prospect of violence. He leaned forward and whispered "He give you any details?"

Ieannia shook her head and got up to go.

"I hopes its better then the last job he had for us," muttered the Dwarf. "Parading about all night looking for that lost pillock of a wizard of his, we were. An' he still owes me ten gold for that job too."

Ieannia smirked at him and strode off. As she stalked off, she heard the Half-Orc spit something after her in his kind's mangled speech, but she ignored it. Bracing herself once more for the attentions of the Cleric, she wrenched open the stiff doors and stepped out.


	3. Trouble in Tinytown

Urg the barbarian spat an old Orcish curse after the retreating form of the ranger. Very little had frightened him from the days since he'd been knee high to a Giant Spider. Growing up a despised slave in an Orc tribe had long ago inured him to violence, and taught him to look out, as well as punch, bite and claw, for number one. So he did not appreciate the shock Ieania had just dealt him.

"Too easy ta doze here an' booze," he thought to himself.

He was chilled with the realisation that he could now be on the floor with six inches of steel in his gut if the ranger had wished it. Truly this place was a treacherous one. You got here and stayed, lulled by the long, hot, dusty days, the breeze and the drink, and it slowed you. Unfortunately Lower Wyrmling wasn't a good place to be slow.

Anxiously he stroked Bob, the sacred talisman hung round his neck.

"I is gunna do dis job an' get outta dis place," he thought ponderously to himself.

The Dwarf looked up at him curiously as he stroked the doll.

"I has always meant to ask yer," he began.

"Wots dat fing dat I carrys rond moi neck" finished the Half-Orc, "I's noticed ya ey'in it up tryin' ta decide if it's worf nickin'," he added sarcastically as the Dwarf's jaw dropped open. Recovering himself the Dwarf scowled.

"Well is it?"

"Only if ya wants ya stunty 'ead kickin in," replied the barbarian. "Dis," he said reverently, enclosing the furry doll in his huge grey fist, "Is holy sym, syn-, thingy of moi village. Is thingy of our boss inna, wossit? Big blue thingy."

"Sky."

"Inna sky corr'lled Bob."

"Bob," said Zorro flatly.

"Yur, Bob. Youse wanna 'ear dis or not?"

"Oh yeah, this is one thing I'm definitely gonna listen to!"

"Well, my village woz raided by pointy-earz from da norf."

"Slims?"

"Yur. Anyhow, dey surrounded da village an' torched it. I got dis fing from our shaman. Its orl I's got ta remember dem orl by."

Zorro hesitated in his response, torn between his hatred of Orcs and a slight sympathy for his fellow party member.

He decided to change to a less sensitive subject. "Yer got a holy symbol off yer cleric?" he asked, impressed.

"Oh he dint want ta give it ter me. I had ta hit 'im wiv me axe a coupla times first. Any 'ow, oi got aht, but dey got all da uvvers I fink. So now I is da only 'un wot worships Bob."

Zorro squinted suspiciously. He'd heard of plenty of Small Gods, Gods worshipped only by a handful of locals, sometimes only in a single village or family. But in all his time down here he'd never heard of a divine mouse on legs. He squinted again at the idol round his partner's thick neck.

"So what are yer doin' with him?"

"'E is der godfing of cheese, garbage an' dese Wom-, Wong-, fings. I is lookin for dem. Wun day I wull find dem, an' den they wull make me der boss of der whole lot of 'em, an' orl be a king!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," interrupted Zorro, waving his hand dismissivly, mildly worried by the red glow flooding from his companion's eyes, and the glazed look of fanaticism creeping across his face. Pausing to wipe some of the Half-Orc's phlegm out of his beard, Zorro staggered upright.

"Come on mate," he gestured invitingly at the exit, "Lets go bring Torfindel his musician and his pretty wizard."

Together the Dwarf and the sole worshipper of Bob, god of cheese, garbage and Wombles staggered off to collect the two women. Almond was so busy staring at the Necromancer's bust he wouldn't realise until the doors banged shut behind the party that Zorro hadn't actually paid for his drinks.

* * *

The Unknown Necromancer stopped her magic light display. Half way through a difficult piece, Carmina was startled and blinded in the sudden gloom. Her playing ceased abruptly. A thin pointed face turned down towards the mage with an expression of hurt surprise.

"What did you do that for? I was just getting to the good part," she complained in a puzzled tone.

The Necromancer sighed. "It was the only way to get your attention," she said gently. "I'd called out to you three times, but you'd drifted off again. What was it this time?"

"Oh, I was just fine tuning the third verse of Plato's Lament," smiled Carmina softly.

The Unknown Necromancer gave a single considered nod, eyes wide in disbelief. "You're writing a ballad about a philosopher chicken?"

"Oh yes, he's very keen on it. It's nearly time for him to realise he's a theoretical impossibility and vanish again, so we're trying to polish it now so it's ready for his return."

For the thousandth time since meeting the bard, the Necromancer closed her eyes. Was it just an act or a case of terminal optimism in mortal nature, she wondered wearily.

"Is what?"

"Oh never mind, just thinking out loud again. Oh, that reminds me, pull your cloak on. The Brain of Lower Wyrmling and his pet weasel are coming over tell us Torfindel's called a meeting."

Carmina's eyes widened.

"Really?" she whispered in an awed voice "At last! Something I can put down in my saga you think?"

The Necromancer grimaced.

"Perhaps. I don't know, I just read their lips."

* * *

Torfindel stood sweating under the boiling afternoon sun. Three o'clock and it was still so hot the air in front of his eyes shimmered with heat waves. He mentally kicked himself for the umpteenth time that day for slicking his luxurious blond hair back with pig grease. Normally it might stiffen the follicles upright, giving you an exotic yet approachable look amongst all the shaved heads of the locals, but in this weather, as he had found, the stuff just ran. As a result he now looked like a drowned rat, his locks plastered about his finely chiselled face. The grease hadn't stopped there either. He could even now feel it dripping down the back of his neck and spreading across his expensive silk shirt. Road dust thrown up by the wind was sticking to his sweaty skin. Altogether he decided wryly, he wasn't how you'd picture a Noldorian aristocrat. But then he'd fallen on hard times, so he supposed some slippage in standards was inevitable.

He spotted a dark-clad hobbit striding along the street, short sword strapped to it's waist. Hastily, he pulled his floppy hat lower and turned away from the Naked Elf, pretending to be listening to Ronald Krup.

The demented Half-Elf cleric was standing in front of the shack he called his shrine, ranting his message across the near empty plaza. His only audience, apart form Torfindel, was a bored looking donkey attached to an empty cart parked outside one of Lower Wyrmling's innumerable ale houses. It flicked it's ears idly as fly droned past, a look of world-weary resignation on it's face.

The hobbit guard froze at the entrance to the square on hearing this monologue, pivoted on the spot and sprinted back the way he'd come pursued by a torrent of invective in broken Hobbitish. Torfindel smirked and leaned back against the tree he was sheltering under, amusing himself by counting off which of the sins the Cleric raved about he was actually guilty of. He'd just reached double figures when he heard furtive footsteps behind him and whirled about. His hand only stopped reaching for his sword when he saw who it was.

"Oh, it's you," he said edgily.

"Yes it is," replied Ieannia sweetly. "Where you expecting anyone else? Your gorilla and his pet monkey where still trying to remember how to stand up when I left."

"Bah," Torfindel growled in disgust then spat on the ground elegantly summing up his feelings at his fellow adventurer's obtuseness. Ieannia's pert nose wrinkled up briefly at this unelven display, before settling back into her usual expression of sullen endurance.

A quartet of figures appeared up the road, and drew nearer. Torfindel squinted against the sun and spotted the coarse features of Zorro the Dwarf, immediately identifiable by the huge boil next to his nose and the stench of bitterroot beer that wafted wavelike before him. One figure broke away and waved enthusiastically at him.

"Hello Torfindel!" Carmina cried "What's the news?"

"Come on over where we can talk privately!" called Torfindel back. He glanced round the square nervously again. They were all in deep trouble here and it was his fault.

Carmina and the rest walked up, and she gave a smacking kiss on the cheek by way of greeting. Zorro leered at Torfindel and made a crude gesture at Carmina's back before being promptly buffeted round the head by the Unknown Necromancer. Across the square the cleric paused, staring. A split second latter the priest had recovered himself. His face went from red to purple with effort. His eyes bulged and his hair stood on end. A new burst of vitriol boomed hysterically round the square even louder then before.

Torfindel straightened up. He nodded around at the others, all huddled together in a tight group except for Ieannia, who was standing off to one side, slightly away from Carmina, although she was at least smiling at the reaction the others appearance had provoked from the preacher.

"Yev certainly got that priest proper worked up Carmina," said the Dwarf admiringly. "Must have seen something he...ngggh!"

The Dwarf turned and glared at the Necromancer who reached down with a leather bag. Sullenly Zorro reached into his pocket and produced a bronze coin, which he thrust into the purse. The Unknown reached down and tweaked his nose.

"Nasties we're not," she said reprovingly.

Zorro shot her a murderous glare before spiting brown phlegm on the dusty ground. The heat and the dust was making everyone irritable, the preacher doubly so. Torfindel waved his arms to gain the group's attention.

"If I could just begin..."

"What is that idiot cleric banging on about," ground out Ieannia, "Anyone would think he'd just seen a murder committed not a cuddle! And that's so two faced too. I've seen him in the Naked Elf dozens of times. I had to chuck him out last week after he started on poor Cipher the troll!"

"It's his cult's rules dear," explained Carmina knowledgeably. "I don't entirely understand this myself, but his lot are the umm... 'United Reformed Seventh Day Adventists of Correllion Levethien- Reform Wing'. They're a bunch of extreme moon worshippers- that is His symbol you see. They believe that in daylight you've got to cover every inch of your skin to shield it from the corrupting influence of the sun's rays. It's only at night they dress normally, and we're all bareheaded here except Torfindel. Why are you wearing a hat by the way?"

"Later," interrupted Torfindel, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice, "If I could just bring everyone's attention back to the business at hand...?"

"Personally I can't concentrate with that racket going on," said the Necromancer serenely, "I'll just go and quieten down him. Bring me up to speed when I get back."

Ignoring Torfindel's glare she peeled away from the group and stalked towards the priest, her cloak billowing out behind her. The Half-Orc bent down and whispered to the Dwarf who nodded. Hands were shaken as the bet was sealed.

"Pay attention!" barked Torfindel, "Thank you," he said when the band's faces turned expectantly towards him. "Now as you know I was in the Naked Elf last night when I received a special delivery form Gangmaster Pretzel's lot- twice as many Bomber mushrooms as usual, at least fifty gold's worth."

There was an awed silence from the group.

"You mean," whispered Zorro, dry throated, "that you had a small fortune in your pocket, and you lost them?!"

"You lost mushrooms from the Milosevic Hobbits?" asked Ieannia, her heart sinking.

"That is what I've been trying to tell you for the last five minutes," said Torfindel reproachfully.

"Well, could yer pay them what yer owe?" inquired Zorro urgently.

"What do you think?" shot Torfindel back.

"Maybe you just mislaid them?" asked the Dwarf hopefully, grasping at straws.

"Look, I've spent the morning searching the whole area on my knees," said Torfindel impatiently, "No trace of them. They've been nicked. And since none of my 'customers' have turned up babbling about pink elephants and cheese I think we can assume it wasn't any of them. No, this was some opportunistic grab by some bloody local kid who bumped into me outside the Naked Elf last night. I hope they bloody OD."

Ieannia's face had paled. She started to edge away from Torfindel as if he'd just been transformed into a raging Hill Giant.

"Have you told Pretzel yet?" she asked innocently.

"He knew as soon as I didn't meet the first client this morning," stated Torfindel dryly, "He's been looking to speak to me all day. That's why I called this meeting. There's no way we can pay him off. We all need to run."

The Half-Orc frowned. Of all the species gathered in the plaza he'd been in Lower Wyrmling the shortest time, and he wondered at the shared terror settling in over the faces of the others.

"Woz da wurries?" he asked nervously, "If Torfindel 'ere gets squished then we cun finds a noo boss."

The others, ignoring Torfindel's splutterings of outrage, were shaking their heads mournfully.

"No dear. Hobbits live and work in clans. They're very tribal. A success or failure by one member is a success or failure by all members of his or her circle. And as Torfindel has just upset the biggest and most violent of the crime families we're all going to be brutally murdered in an act of collective punishment unless we get out of here right now," said Carmina, giving Torfindel a dazzling smile. "Don't worry, Torfindel, I'm sure you'll found a new business elsewhere easily enough!"

Torfindel smiled weakly back.

* * *

The Slightly Reverend Ronald Krup paused to draw a breath under the sweltering heat of the mid-afternoon sun. Straightening back up, the young Half-Elf continued chanting his memorised service to the donkey, keeping half an eye on the lone Elf loitering at the centre of the plaza. He nurtured a faint hope of a conversation with that one. It would be nice talk to an Elf for a change. He might even be a believer. As befitted an Elf abroad in daylight he was clothed head to toe and hiding his face in the shadow of the only tree growing in the central plaza.

As he continued to chant about damnation and the horrors of the Abyss he cast an experienced eye up, noting the position of the sun. Only another seven hours of being grilled in his armour and helmet before darkness and a stiff drink in the Naked Elf.

He cast his eye back to his only sentient listener and noted with interest that he had been joined by a whole group of people. Among them where three Elves, with their heads shamefully bare to the sun. As he watched they all began to talk animatedly together, patently ignoring him. Perhaps it was just the prospect of another seven hours wasted preaching to an empty plaza, or perhaps it was buried resentment of three years of indifference exactly like this that made the usually placid Ronald snap. Whatever it was he decided quite suddenly that if he was going to be ignored he would deviate from his usual sermon and give his audience something to listen to. Mentally cranking his voice up another octave, he took a deep breath and launch into Saint Gestron's message to the Grey Elves about the importance of shooting squirrels, eating enough fibre, and putting all non-Elves to the sword. He'd just got to the best part where the Saint deals with the Orcs, and became so wrapped up in the third verse he failed to notice the approach of one the Elven party until she shouted loudly into his ear.

* * *

"I said, what in the name of the Abyss do you think you're doing?!" the Unknown bawled into the priest's ear a second time.

"Preaching the True Word of Corellon Larethian!" spluttered the Cleric, so excited to talking to a member of the right race after so long he nearly dropped his holy symbol.

He turned to look get a closer look at the woman he was talking to. His gaze revealed a young elven woman, blonde hair spilling around her head. Her ears, large and pointed, were set high into her strangely shaped skull, and were laid back in the Elven gesture of annoyance. Alien eyes parted by an almost non-existent nose, gazed back at him under arched eyebrows. She was wearing a purple robe, secured at the waist by a calfskin belt with a bronze clasp. The robe flared at her neck into an open collar, which covered the back of her neck. At her throat, a gold clasp shaped into a leering demonical face held black cloak in place, over which was a pattern of stars and moons. A short sword hung at her waist in a plain leather scabbard, as did several shiny, drawstring pouches. Strapped to her thigh and partly covered by the cloak was a sheathed dagger. Catskin boots covered her feet. Ron blinked and had to hit himself.

She put her hand on her hip, cocked her head and said mockingly "Something wrong Reverend?"

"Nothing at all, ma'am. How may I help you? You'd like some Church Literature perhaps?" he said, trying to reign in the eagerness in his voice.

"Miz actually, I prefer the Noldorian title," she sniffed "And I came here to ask you to stop harassing my friends, not to natter about theology with a fanatic. And none of my friends across the square want to be converted either."

The Cleric felt confused. This wasn't how the conversation was supposed to go. The sinner was supposed to come to the priest, hear the Word for the first time and break down and confess under its terrible Truth. Then they would join the Church, become absolved and serve the great cause. He dimly remembered his instructors back at the mission telling him a cash donation came into it somewhere to.

"Milady," he said with an attempt to recover his dignity, "why would I try to convert Hobbits? Coreillian Levethien is an Elven go-"

The mage gave him a strange look.

"Hobbits? None of my friends are Hobbits-"

She started, and whirled around to look at her friends.

"Oh shit!"


	4. A New Job Offer

They appeared at the entrance to the central square while everyone was still arguing about what action to take. Afterwards Torfindel was never sure when he himself became aware of the threat, or even who noticed it first. Suddenly almost simultaneously they all fell quiet. Someone next to Torfindel, he thought it was Ieannia, drew in their breath sharply. It dawned on the group that all the exits were blocked by groups of rapidly approaching black-clad Hobbits. Within seconds a loose ring of Hobbits, about a dozen of whom carried loaded crossbows, surrounded them.

As the party huddled together Zorro hefted his axe thoughtfully and spat in disbelief.

"This ain't how it's serposed to end," he muttered "stabbed to death by three dozen midgets armed with knitting needles. Well, I won't say it were nice to have known yer all because it would be a total lie, and yeah, that's graditude for yer. Lump it."

He spat again, then motioned to Urg.

"Yer take the red headed one on the left, I'll do the dark one with the curved sword," he instructed.

Urg nodded, and began limbering up for the coming battle, swinging his huge axe in sweeping practice curves. Even Torfindel tremblingly drew his sword. But as the adventurers prepared to go down fighting, one of the hobbits shouted something unintelligible and stepped forward, holding her sword hilt first to show she wished to talk. She was followed by another hobbit who watched her back and covered the party unwaveringly with a huge embossed crossbow.

Torfindel narrowed his eyes as he recognised the first figure. The woman stepping towards him was Anikka Sudariana, or 'Battle-Annie' as she was known in sundry bars scattered around town. Her Clan name was Minty Ice-cream, with which she had much in common, being both cold and bitter. She was Pretzel's chief lieutenant, and in line to succeed him here when he returned to Blairon. Unusually for a hobbit she was stick thin, with two livid parallel scars lashed across her forehead. She was dressed in ordinary green linen not her armour- whether a good or bad sign Torfindel couldn't tell.

The male behind her was known as the Terrier, because of the twin metal teeth he'd had fixed into his mouth. During hand to hand the Terrier always tried to tear his opponent's throat or groin out with those, and boasted of having single-handedly killed an ogre in just such an unpleasant manner. He was the chief enforcer of Pretzel, and a broad plump hobbit with a paunch from too much rootbeer. Like his companions he was dressed in black trousers and tunic, leather kneeboots and had a red shash tied around his waist with a shortsword hanging from it. He leered silently at the group over his crossbow. From here you could just see the pale slash of a ragged scar across his throat that had cost him his voice and his attacker, a rival from another clan, his life.

Minty Ice-cream halted in front of them and bowed low, ironically polite.

"Torfindel," she purred "So nice to see you at last. We've been looking for you all day, but you seemed to have vanished. In fact you're nearly late for your appointment with Mr Pretzel."

Torfindel shook his head. "Fine," he said in a defeated tone. "Just coming. I'll see you guys later yeah?"

Minty Ice-cream smiled with wicked relish. "Oh, but Mr Pretzel is so looking forward to meeting all your lovely friends. He's heard so much about them, and frankly, they might make those boring business meetings a more social occasion don't you think?"

"You mean we have a choice between bein' slowly tortured to death while yer boss watches, then shot in the head and slung in a ditch or goin' down now and taking some of you Munchkins with us?" mused Zorro out loud, before Torfindel's hand clamped over his mouth.

Minty Ice-cream's head rotated slowly towards the Dwarf. Her eyes blazed momentarily, but she continued in a honeyed voice, directing her words to Torfindel, though she now favoured the Dwarf with her malevolent gaze.

"On the contrary, Mr Pretzel is a fair hobbit. He knows that stashes of highly expensive merchandise get mislaid all the time. In fact he sent me here to tell you that he's prepared to give you all a second chance..."

The whole party perked up except Torfindel, who guessed something of what was coming.

"If firstly you do one small job for him. Or we can shoot you all down right here."

"We'll come!" the group said unanimously.

Minty Ice-cream turned to walk back to the Terrier with feigned carelessness, taking a parting shot as she left.

"You can even bring your monkey here," she called back, gesturing at Zorro.

The Dwarf stiffened at the insult. His bloodshot eyes bulged, and spittle flecked his beard. With a thin scream of rage he started towards the Hobbit, axe arching towards her retreating back, heedless of the crossbows suddenly levelled in his direction. Urg and Ieannia looked at each other in unspoken agreement. Moving with a swiftness and unity that belied their previous bickering they each reached down and seized one arm of the beserker as he roared past them, hefting him off the ground. The Dwarf's legs churned through empty air as he strained to reach after the Hobbit, shrieking imprecations about her ancestry, mental state and choice of bed partner.

Ignoring him now, the ring of Hobbits became two lines, one on either side of the party, watching them as they were escorted across the square to an anonymous whitewashed building. They all passed through its oak gate which slammed ominously shut after their passing. Silence reigned again over the deserted square.


	5. I Have a Cunning Plan?

Apologies for the huge nature of this chapter. Damn plot...

Across the square stood the only shrine to Coreillien Levethien in the entire town. It was a dilapidated hut thrown together from materials discarded from other people's buildings. The Cleric was very proud of it. Squalid as it was it represented visible progress for his cult - for the first three years he'd been here he'd lived down a hole with a leather awning thrown over it, which had flooded with every summer rainstorm.

The Necromancer squatted on the dirt floor and listened carefully. Eventually there was a polite cough from outside the door, which swung open, letting in a blast of hot air as the Reverend Krup gingerly stepped in. He wasn't very used to people demanding sanctuary in the shrine. In his experience it was usually the opposite - they fled away from the building. However it wasn't his place to question the mage's sudden rediscovery of the joys of religion, and her very generous donation to the church roof fund inclined him to look upon it as a spontaneous response to environmental pressures like near-death experiences.

As it was, since leaving the wizard there he'd been out again. It hadn't been difficult to spot the procession of back-clad Hobbits stalking through the deserted streets, and he had noted with care the complex that they had disappeared into. Yaggis House. Even Ronald knew that name. He sucked his teeth is dismay briefly, then turned around and scurried away before the sentries noticed him. Arriving at the church, he knocked twice to give the all clear to its only occupant, then let himself in.

The Unknown Necromancer meanwhile had used her time crouched behind altar where she'd been bundled to think. A number of facts presented themselves for her assessment. Firstly she was relatively safe here. She'd been missed in the sweep that had picked up the others, and while the Hobbits might keep an idle eye out for her in her usual haunts they certainly weren't going to look here. Secondly her friends had been kidnapped for reasons unknown by a bunch of brutal Hobbit Mafioso and could even now be being tortured or worse. Thirdly, if she were to escape the same fate herself she would have to flee Lower Wyrmling- not difficult in itself, but she would be left alone in the dangerous wilderness, two or three days distance from the nearest friendly village, with nothing but the clothes on her back and what she was carrying with her to see her through. She couldn't run and leave her friends to their fate either. She needed a plan then... and then abruptly she had one. A beautiful, bright thing slowly flowering in her mind. She analysed it carefully as it took on shape, testing it for flaws. It was desperate she knew, but with a bit of luck it might just work...

So it was that when the Cleric entered she immediately stood up, brushing herself down and drew in a deep breath.

"Reverend-,"

"Slightly Reverend actually. Careful ma'am-,"

"Miz-,"

"-Ma'am, you don't want to go calling people things they're not, they might take offence you know."

The Necromancer paused and glared at the Half-Elf's earnest face.

"They won't be the only the only ones taking offence round here if you don't watch it! Shut up and let me finish!"

Barely registering his astonishment she swept on imperiously.

"Look, the people who took my friends are probably still looking out for me too. They'll be expecting me to turn up at my rooms in the Naked Elf, and they'll be watching my kidnapped friends' places to make sure I can't go to ground there either. They'll also probably follow anybody who shows up there in case they lead them back to me."

"That's not very fair is it now?" complained Ronald.

The Necromancer smiled for the first time since this afternoon's hurried flight.

"Yes, it is a pain in the neck when your enemies don't follow Villainy for Dummies. These Hobbits use their brains. But, I have a card or two to play they don't know about yet. Ronald, I'd like you to meet Smokey here."

Ron looked down at his feet to see the large black cat that had slunk in after the Necromancer. By way of greeting it extended it's claws and clambered agonisingly up his body until it was around his shoulders, where they glared at each other.

"It's a moggy," said Ron coldly, one of nature's cat haters.

"He's not a moggy, he's my familiar," said the wizard indignantly "In any case we can use him as an unobtrusive spy for us. Can't we my little one?" she crooned, scratching the cat under his chin.

_"If there's a fish in it."_

"We? Who's we?" objected the startled Cleric.

"Look, just hear me out okay?" the Necromancer said, her tone placatory, "Just let me tell you my plan, and then I'll hear your objections, right?"

The Cleric subsided under her gaze, muttering sullenly. He crossed his arms and nodded at her to make her bid.

"They don't know that you're sheltering me yet. They have no reason to suspect you either. You can travel outside with no questions asked. Ieannia mentioned you go to the Naked Elf sometimes. Quiet! You know behind the bar there, there'll be a scrawny adolescent nerd called Almonds. He serves the drinks occasionally. You go to him and ask him to saddle up seven horses. Tell him he'll be able to collect some gold from my rooms after all the fuss has died down, and that the next time I see him," she shut her eyes, "Tell him I'll give him a kiss."

"You think that'll work?"

"He's a hormonal male teenager! What do you think?"

"Wouldn't know," replied the Cleric gloomily "Can't remember much of my teenage years. I think I spent most of them in solitary at the asylum where I was raised."

"What a truly fascinating childhood you must have had," commented the Unknown Necromancer, "But trust me on this one - he'll think with his thing. You all do," she said pointedly.

"With his brain? I've heard about those. What are they?"

The mage's shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Never mind. Just do it," she said. "Anyway," she continued "That'll be one promise I'll never have to keep- this is one town I'm not exactly going to be coming back to if we get out. You must make sure Almond saddles and provisions those horses- we'll need to make a quick getaway. Then you go to Arnie's General Stores and you sell those altar candles- that'll give us some funds to play with. Buy as many knives and swords as you can- they usually have a surplus of those. See if you can pick up some bandages while you're there. If I know Hobbits, they'll be sitting down to eat in two to three hours from now. Most of them will be drowsy, and probably a little drunk at the end. While you're chatting up Almond, I'll try to get a look at that house they went into and find out if the others are still alive. I've got a hooded cloak in my pack, no one will see me. If they aren't alive I'll leave tonight and you can compensate yourself for your trouble from my belongings; here's the key, it's room 11, the Naked Elf. If they are, and I have a way into that complex, then we try for a rescue tonight. Pack anything you want to take with you now - you won't get the chance to come back for it. Clear?"

Ron looked at her unblinkingly. "I'm allowed to object now?" he asked tentatively.

"If you must."

Ron drew a deep breath.

"Let me see if this scheme of yours works out as I understand it. You want me to sell two holy relics, the proceeds of which will then be used to fund the escape of a drug dealer, which you also want my direct participation in as well. If it succeeds, which seems very unlikely as we have no firm plan you then want me to abandon this shrine, that has taken years of effort and sacrifice to built and ride off into the monster filled wilderness. Without informing any of my superiors what in Corellon Larethian's green world I'm doing I might add," he paused, then finished caustically, "I must say I'm open to persuasion on this one."

The Necromancer hesitated. This was one of the most crucial junctures of her master plan. She needed the Cleric on her side for the time being. The question was how to persuade him. Bribing him was out. Firstly she didn't have any more money on her, and secondly he'd only take money for his bloody roof fund, the reason for which she was asking him to abandon. Sleeping with him was also out. The fringe churches where notoriously good at indoctrination and their clerics were trained from birth to put the interests of the Church first. She could tell he didn't like his job, but if she wanted to change his mind, she would have to present her case in a light that would make his interests and those of his Church coincide. As Ron sat waiting patiently she turned her options over in her mind. Finally, she came to a decision.

"Slightly Reverend?" she began.

"Yes?" asked the Cleric frowning warily.

"May I ask you a personal question?"

"By all means," he mummered.

"Reverend, do you like your job here? Are you satisfied with being just a community cleric in a town that doesn't want you? Ieannia says you're quite the frustrated holy warrior most nights at the Naked Elf. It strikes me that in a town full of Hobbits and Humans a Cleric following the Elven pantheon is rather wasting his time. Don't you think you could be doing more for your God elsewhere?"

Ronald smiled dreamily. "Once I had such dreams of glory. I thought I was destined to slaughter my Lord's enemies under a dozen different skies. I joined the Militant Tendency you know. Very full of ourselves we young ones where."

"The who?" queried the wizard.

"Oh, just a group of like-minded priests like myself. We wanted to cross into Sindaria and incite the overthrow of our main enemy there, the King. Our elders were far more sensible. They had realised we needed to spread the word and establish bases outside that Elven kingdom if we were ever to hope of returning there in triumph. That's how I ended up here. After my Bishop discovered my membership of the Tendency I was assigned this parish close to the border and told to recruit as many Elves as possible for future action. When I had my cell I was to return to Blairon for reassignment."

The Unknown Necromancer blinked. "But there aren't any Elves living here."

"Yes, that's the rather the point," said Ron with a twisted smile.

Seeing the mage look at him searchingly he hurried on "But it's been good for me. I've had my faith tested living in squalor amongst infidels and come through the stronger for it."

"I take it the answer to my question would be no?" asked the wizard

"I haven't got a congregation, the shrine's a shack and nobody understands my sermons."

"That's a definite no then," confirmed the mage.

"Yes," agreed Ron "But if you think that a vague promise of adventure is going to have me haring off after you in this mad scheme, or get me to pawn valuable Church property either you're very much mistaken. I have my orders to establish a shrine and congregation here..."

"...and that's what I'm going to do," finished the Necromancer for him.

"Look at what this situation offers then!" she cried, "Look, held in that prison at this very moment is a large percentage of the Elven population of Lower Wyrmling. If you rescue them will they not be eternally grateful? Will you not have at last accomplished something tangible that you can report to your Bishop? A success that could get you out of this mud-hole! Imagine it! You'll have saved three souls!"

"There are four of you."

"Four souls? Oh, me? Oh. Of course when I said three I actually meant four souls," sighed the mage.

The Cleric was frowning thoughtfully now, not really tempted, but at least considering.

"How do I know they'll join me, or even if the Church needs them? The only one I know anything about is a philandering pusher!" he objected.

"Ah, but the other two are simple working people Ronald! One's a basher at the Naked Elf, and deeply religious- you'd already have one fellow worshipper there. The other is like me. She doesn't follow any particular God seriously. We're both just waiting for His Light to illuminate our humble little selves." She paused and mopped her brow. Talking all this shit was quite surreal. Mentally she mimed a pray to Wee Jass.

"And the dealer?" quested the Cleric, still deeply sceptical. "I hardly think someone like that is going to come rushing into the arms of Our Lord- and the Church is a family organisation. We don't tolerate dealing by our members. Why, the Bishop would have a fit if I brought him in!"

"Your Bishop spends a lot of time judging other people's lives," observed the Necromancer sourly.

"A most holy and wise man," smirked Ronald.

Personally he hated his Bishop. A natural rebel he loathed the stuffy and hidebound hierarchy of his Church. To him they'd lost the fire to take back Sindaria for his God, and settled into comfortable exile in Blairon.

The Unknown Necromancer paused, her thoughts racing wildly as she tried to find some way to describe the flamboyant, opportunistic and easy going personality of Torfindel in away that would appeal to this dreamy priest.

"Leaving aside His Grace for now I assure you there isn't really a problem with Torfindel," she began cautiously, "You've just completely misunderstood him that's all. Torfindel's not a criminal, it's not in his character. Look, take it from someone who knows him. He was raised a salesman, it's in his lifeblood. And he's brilliant at it. He has a sharp mind, a smooth tongue and charisma by the bucket load. But he's not a God. He can only sell what people will buy, and round here that's mushrooms."

The Cleric started to object but she waved him down again.

"Look, it's just one sideline he has. He even does tricks at children's parties when he can get them for Wee Jass's sake!" she continued emphatically. "We all have to eat, and there's not much 'honest' work round here, even for adventurers. Look at Ieannia- she's a Ranger and she works as a basher in a mob-run bar. All I'm saying is get him somewhere else and he'll do something else."

"And the Bishop?" queried Ronald.

"Need never know. But what the problem there is I don't know," retorted the Necromancer. "After all the Churches love repentant sinners most of all don't they? Also I'm sure Torfindel will find it in his heart to be suitably generous in his penitence."

The Cleric pondered her words before nodding his reluctant acceptance.

"Okay, you've got me an incentive," he said "What about my shrine though? I can't just leave this place unattended to go haring off into the wilderness- this is a sanctified holy place; there are rites and prayers to follow, sacrifices to be made... I can't just leave," he finished lamely.

"You don't think that Pretzel will leave this place standing if we do this do you?" asked the mage scornfully.

"In that case it's even more important that I don't jeopardise the Church's position here- this building is a registered church asset; the Hierarchy would have my head if it was burnt," replied the Cleric frostily.

"You do know you have very objectionable attitude to saving souls for a priest don't you?"

"Look," said the Cleric spreading his hands out in a calming gesture. "If it was up to me I'd be off like a shot. In my book saving souls is what I'm this business for- that and killing of course. But the Hierarchy has a different agenda- they work on the big picture, all of elvenkind. Their strategy says if we're ever to have a hope of making our voices heard back in Sindaria again we must network out here and grow strong. They... I mean we, have thrown up a string of places like this one across the south, especially near Blairon. We're trying to recruit and fundraise, and any priest who goes against that strategy is putting the whole of Elvenkind's souls at risk from their point of view. After all if the priests won't obey how can we function as a Church? If I abandon my post here and we fail I won't just be dead, I'll be excommunicated - doomed to be cast out from Elvenkind for a thousand years, and reborn a hundred times as an Orc."

He shuddered, plainly terrified at the dreadful threat. The Unknown Necromancer was silent for a moment. Then she looked up at Ron, biting her lip thoughtfully.

"You said that this place was a registered church asset?" she asked slowly.

"Umm, yes..." answered the Cleric, suddenly sweating slightly.

"Pray tell, does the Church insure its assets?"

"Of course," answered the Cleric proudly. "With Deville, Deville & Samsung plc. I contributed every penny out personally to, from my food allowance cash. We've always been careful to meet all our premiums on time."

"Naturally," said the wizard dryly. "What did you register this shack as?" she asked innocently.

The Cleric shuffled his feet, avoiding her gaze.

"I may have enhanced just a few details," he murmured.

"Really. And those were...?"

"Well, I did say that it was stone..."

"And?" asked the mage sarcastically.

"Umm; I registered it as a two storey stone Church, with gold plated altar, oak pews and a bell tower," admitted Ronald, abashed. He gazed loving round the tiny hut, "And one day it will be," he said dreamily, staring at a vision only he could see.

The Unknown Necromancer smiled slightly.

"So in effect the Church in Blairon would suddenly receive a three year lump sum for a completed Church if this... thing got torched," she said softly. "And you'd come out of it with four new converts to the cause and the reputation of a hero. Unbelievable. You'd be untouchable, especially if you were careful to stay out of contact for a few months to let things cool off. It's difficult to hang someone if a hundred people join up because of him. Just hide up here with us. Pretend you're cut off. Word will reach the Church soon enough anyway."

Ronald nodded slowly.

"You…do have a... sort of a plan?" he asked.

"Plan and friends," replied the Necromancer, trying to sound more confident then she was. If they knew about Ysel…

"You've persuaded me," he said. "You must be a sign from Our Lord sent to show me my path. I see now that in the past I was too proud, too reckless. I was not yet ready to face evil. I see that despite my ordination I am still being trained and tested as to my worthiness. I was sent here to learn humility before the Lord. Now my time here is finished. It is His will that I travel with you into the wilderness as His Grace did before us, where I will learn His Wisdom, and hone myself against the ancient enemy."

"The Orcs?"

"No!" hissed the Cleric, his face suddenly contorting hideously. "Pixies! Vile little bastards! I hate them! Especially the way they swirl all around you waggling their stupid little wings and thumbing their pert noses!"

"Ah," said the mage delicately, quietly mouthing another prayer to Wee Jass. "That's very interesting...Um, could you get down to the General Store now?"

Ronald blinked.

"What?" he asked, "Oh yes, certainly."

He stooped to pick up the shrine's two tarnished silver candles. With fresh purpose he stepped out into the late afternoon sunshine, the door swinging shut behind him. Inside, the Unknown Necromancer stood up and brushed herself down, breathing a mental sigh of relief. Offering a brief prayer of thanks to both the Powers involved she reached into her pack and pulled out a nondescript brown cloak, with a deep hood. It was time for phase two.


	6. Inside a Prison Cell

Torfindel stumbled into the hut, propelled by a kick from behind and tumbled onto its dirt floor. The others filed in after him, Zorro muttering imprecations and threats against their guards. Torfindel glanced around him as the door to their cell was locked with a loud click in the silence. The only noise apart from their breathing was the bustle of activity coming from the compound outside. The hut itself was a filthy, cobwebbed brick shed, crumbling but serviceable. There were no windows; the only light filtering through the bars of a grill set in their flimsy prison door. Set against any breakout though, were at least four guards, their voices filtering through into the cell. Torfindel heard one of them snigger.

The others had sat or knelt down on the packed earth floor, and where staring numbly around them, but Torfindel continued to prowl around the hut. He prodded the wall for holes, however small, and despite the gloom his Elven eyes scoured the roof looking for a weak spot. Whatever Pretzel wanted to see them about badly enough to go against time honoured Hobbit custom Torfindel did not want to find out about at all.

"Knock it off boss, there ain't nothing. Those walls are sound," advised the gravelly voice of Zorro.

Ieannia, whose Elven senses were as keen as Torfindel's nodded her agreement.

Torfindel shook his head. Always a go-getter he found he simply couldn't sit and wait for their meeting with the Gangmaster. He feared it would drive him mad with frustration. Right now he needed to keep his mind occupied, even if it was just with the illusion of doing something.

"I'm going to ask the guards when we'll see the king Munchkin," he announced abruptly.

He strode over to the door and put his face up to the grill. But before he could open his mouth a spear butt crashed through the grill and struck him in the mouth. He crumpled down against the door clutching at his jaw with both hands. He felt the taste of bronze in his mouth. The others winced in sympathy, except for Urg who simply stared dumbly and rubbed his doll.

"Boss said no talking to the prisoners Elf," the voice of the leader of the guards called out "Seems to think your Bard might be a bit too persuasive. That was just a warning. Next time we'll fire a bolt through, understand? And don't try anything with magic either. We've got a priest here with us can tell that sort of thing, ain't that right Grot?"

More sniggers sounded from behind the door, clear at the cleric's expense.

Torfindel crawled away from the door until he was beyond the range of the punishing spear. What in blazes had happened to his face? He staggered over to Carmina and gestured at himself. Understanding his mute question she hastened to reassure him.

"You're fine. Just a split lip that's all," she said "There wasn't to much force behind it. Here, look,"

She fumbled in her belt pouch and pulled out a small hand mirror. Eagerly taking it from her outstretched hand he held it up in front of him and breathed a silent sigh of relief. Carmina was right. He wasn't missing any teeth, although one looked a bit loose. He prodded it with his tongue and felt it move slightly.

"Typical Torfindel," said Ieannia acidly "Here we sit in mortal danger all thanks to our great leader, and what is he doing? He's looking in a mirror admiring himself as usual."

Torfindel felt a stab of guilt at her remark. It was his fault they were here. But the way in which it was put. That made him angry. He already wanted to lash out at something, anything, to end the feeling of helplessness in him anyway. Ieannia had just made herself a target.

"Just checking my face Ieannia," he smirked "I want to make sure I look my best for when your period's over. Only another six months. I notice you've been keeping yourself in trim for me."

Urg and Zorro sniggered as Ieannia turned scarlet, and her ears lay back. Even Carmina smiled.

"You… arrogant pig!" she exclaimed in a disbelieving tone of voice. The conservative Sindarians had always been recitient on sexual matters compare to the Noldor. Unable to think of a suitable expression of disgust she lifted her hand intent on slapping him, but saw his injured face. Changing her mind, she tore the mirror out of his hand and dashed it on the floor instead, to Carmina's horrified shriek.

"Sleep with the half-breed animal!" she stormed, then stalked off to brood in the corner with her back to Torfindel.

Her eyes avoided the sight of Carmina crying and scrabbling on the floor after the fragments of her mirror. Torfindel sat down rather heavily, slightly stunned. Carmina huddled down beside him holding the remains of her mirror protectively and glaring accusingly Ieannia's back.

An uncomfortable silence descended across the room for the next half an hour. Then Ieannia turned around and shuffled over to Carmina. She hung her head, her hair let loose and forming a curtain from the others, she held out a hand to Carmina.

"M'm sorry," she whispered.

The Half-Drow reached up and parted the curtain of hair. Whatever she saw in Ieannia's face must have convinced her because the others saw her nod.

"It's okay," she said gently.

Ieannia sat down next to her again. The tension in the room lessened slightly. Zorro squirmed uncomfortably.

"So," he said brightly "What does we do now?"

Torfindel glanced around their drab cell.

"We wait."


	7. Living Dangerously

To understand Pretzel Hobnob a person needed to know his past history. Pretzel had been born to the proud Bayleaf and Chocolate Hobnob approximately forty-two years ago. His mother was a dock brawler with a legendary temper. His father was a Smuggler [Note; there are Smugglers- people engaged in a criminal conspiracy to transport illegal substance A from farm B to dock C, and honest tradesmen attempting to cut overheads by avoiding certain ridiculous local customs like import duty. Pretzel's father was one of the former and very good at it too] who twenty years prior to Pretzel's existence had had the good sense to ally himself closely to then rising star of the Milosevic Clan, then lead by its greying matriarch Tito Milosevic. The Clan swiftly entrenched itself in eastern Hobbit town, as well as gaining control of the city's lucrative docks.

Young Pretzel grew up with his father doing a roaring trade in illegal spices and smuggled spell components. He was a member of Tito's inner circle, and so young Pretzel went to school with the children of the 'first family', as Tito's family was known. He studied conventionally by day, and by night was schooled in a very different manner by his two servant/bodyguards. He eventually graduated from Blairon University a year early at the tender age of twenty, with a first in advanced mathematics and household finances.

The Milosevic Clan has a tradition of allowing its children to select their own paths up the criminal ladder. Somewhat to his parents' surprise the young Pretzel plumped for assassination as a career. However they duly apprenticed him for one year with the human assassin Veron Nebiz to learn the basics, which he did. He proved highly adept at it, having inherited his mother's capacity for violence and his father's calculating nature. Eleven highly eventful years passed.

By the age of thirty-three Pretzel had built himself a reputation as one of the Milosevic Clan's finest killers. He had 'moved on' twenty-three 'clients', and much to his professional pride had only killed twelve others whilst going about it. He tattooed a blue skull onto his body every time a contract was completed. Eleven ran up each arm, and one was set in the base of his throat. In later years when he wished to intimidate he would casually unbutton his shirt collar and expose the blue skull to sight. Despite all this he grew restless. After his twenty-third client he went before Slobodan Milosevic, the new boss of the Clan and demanded a new challenge. An enraged Slobodan promptly posted him to run a remote mushroom-growing farm along the ill-defined northern border with the Blackvelt Principalities. He was shocked when one year later when the harvest report came in that the farm's production had doubled. Upon receiving six severed heads of double agents that had been working on the farm courtesy of a teleport scroll he began to perceive the advantages of having a financially aware assassin in the north. So was the accountant/assassin multi-class born.

Over the years since Pretzel had been rapidly promoted to a variety of different jobs, though his proudest achievement remained devising a fiendishly complex tax avoidance scheme for the Clan's books that had so far withstood five close inspections by Blairon's Internal Revenue Section. Rumour had it that anytime soon he would be removed from his current post administering all the northern drugs routes and sent back to Blairon to take his place amongst the circle of advisers that surrounded Slobodan when he stayed there. Certainly his deputy Minty was looking forward to the Mayor's next visit.

* * *

The party had fallen into a light doze by the time the door was finally flung back. Some time back the guard must have changed, for now it was a different set of surly guards framed in the doorway, and the Terrier wasn't present. One of them, smaller then the others was thrust into the room whilst his fellows stood well back, crossbows loaded and ready. Picking up himself the hobbit scowled bitterly back at his friends and dusted himself off.

Turning to face the adventurers he cleared his throat annoyingly and yelped in a high pitched squeaky voice "Mr Pretzel will see you now."

"Oh thank you, Mr Messenger," called out Ieannia "Personally I'd just like to say that my friends and I could not have waited one more second without your appearance."

At that one of the bigger guards at the door stepped through, his sword drawn. He was a scarred, wary man. With a swift kick he propelled the first Hobbit out of the cell then gestured with his sword for the party to follow suit. He gave the Ranger a tight smile, his eye darting back and forth watching for any desperate lunges.

"Just get out, lady. Slowly now. We're going to do this here thing peacefully, ain't gonna be trouble."

The party stood slowly, stretching their limbs and popping their stiff joints. The guards backed away from the entrance, still covering the prisoners with their crossbows. The group followed the leader's short figure as he led them across the courtyard of their prison to another whitewashed building, though this part of the complex was in noticeably better condition then the one they'd just left.

The leader half-jogged towards the building's plush entrance, nodding to the two huge Half-Orc guards stationed outside it. They stood apart, allowing the two groups through. The leader knocked once on the door, and a small portal opened. The chief guard leaned forwards and a whispered exchange took place. A question sounded from the portal. The leader rapidly became more agitated and his guards tense at the delay. Zorro didn't help matters by grinning evilly, then indicating first them then himself and making throat slashing motions with his hands.

Torfindel sensed the guard's jerkiness, and their nervousness about the fact that the group still had its hands free. He made a mental note of that, determined to use it should the opportunity arise. He was distracted from this nascent plan of action by the grudging opening of the doors. A sweating human man wearing nothing but sandals and a loincloth glared at them then gestured them inside. Conscious of the man's stare Torfindel strode forwards and stepped into a hall, huge by local standards, stretching away at least a hundred metres.

His senses where assaulted by a massive cacophony as over a hundred hobbits sat, stood or slouched the length of the hall, surrounding a single massive oaken table. It groaned under the weight of a mass of food which the hobbits where systematically demolishing. A variety of delicious smells assailed him, and Torfindel, who hadn't eaten since the morning felt a surge of hunger. Even Elves acknowledged Hobbits' prowess in the kitchen, although that was where they should stay as far as most were concerned. His mouth watering, he was curtly lead through the throng of Mafioso together with the rest of the party. Their guards looked on longingly at the feast and shot resentful looks at their prisoners. Carmina blew them a kiss.

At last, at the end of the hall the leader turned into a small side passage and stopped outside another set of doors. A long queue of petitioners came and went before their eyes. They waited unwillingly. Eventually it was their turn. A slot opened in the door in front of them and a voice rapped out a sharp order in Hobbitish from beyond the door. The leader replied with a single knock, and without further ado the door swung open to admit the party into the lair of the beast, the office of the great Pretzel Hobnob himself. 

* * *

Carmina scanned the 'office' of the deputy Mayor with a bard's trained eyes. It was a long rectangular shape, all wooden floored and white washed walls. The far wall was dominated by a set of glass doors opening out onto the courtyard, currently shut and bolted. Red curtains partially covered the set, held back by velvet sashes. The room was lit by four large candles set on black stands, and an expensive dire bear skin rug covered the approach to the sole set of furniture in the room, a massive mahogany desk drowning under a pile of paper and a rickety chair, looking out of place in the wealthy surroundings.

On top of the chair sat a small figure, leaning his arms against the desk's surface. On either side of the desk stood Minty and the Terrier. In front stood two identical Half-Orc guards, naked from the waist up and coated in intricate blue swirls, naked blades in their massive hands. The slight glow coming from the steel indicated in no uncertain terms that the swords were magical. The seated man, who she guessed to be Pretzel, gestured vaguely at the guards accompanying the adventurers and they spread out across the room, still covering the party. Pretzel it seemed was taking no chances thought the bard, but she noticed that both she and Torfindel were ungagged and unbound. That Pretzel had failed to cut off their access to magic boosted the quick-witted woman's hopes slightly.

Carmina turned her face away from the guards and her eyes swept over Pretzel, her curiosity piqued at this, her first sight of their adversity. Pretzel was large for a hobbit and at 4' 10" he towered over most of the other hobbits, even the Terrier. He wore a loose white shirt after the fashion of junior officers abroad Blaironian ships. A thick leather belt swept round his waste, from which hung a leather purse, a dining pouch and knife and a sheathed dagger. His collar was open revealing the fading blue kill mark. Curly grey hair covered his head, spilling over a lined face dominated by a pair of startling blue eyes. A plain gold stud set in his left ear was his only jewellery. The face was a strong one, hard and etched with lines. But the expression was a serene, carefree one. His manner was a polite and refined. A man used to discussing whom to murder in the highest of company. He was probably as clean at the kill as he could be too, the bard judged.

She froze briefly in mid-stride as the deputy mayor's eyes caught hers. She felt his gaze slide over her, judging, weighing what he saw, then passing, moving onto the others. There had been a hint of magic in that stare, something that pressed on the consciousness. Perhaps he wasn't quite as unprotected as she wanted to think. She pondered the situation, trying to remember any specific tales of Pretzel where he'd been seen to use magic.

People tended to think of Carmina as a bit of an airhead. Her willingness to look for the good in all creatures, her optimism that no matter how terrible a situation was it would be alright in the end, her stunning looks and her caring and outgoing nature all combined to give most people an impression of a harmless charmer with nary a thought in her head. But then most people never considered how such a person could have survived in a place like Lower Wyrmling. Underneath the layers of outgoing fluff Carmina hid a sharp mind and a formidable memory. While being genuinely nice she combined it with the nerve of a cat and an obsession to travel and meet all the people she could, learning everything there was to know about them in the process. Adventurers who dismissed the Bard as a useless hanger-on had never considered where they were going to get the information about the huge scaled horror, [currently thundering towards them] and whether or not their swords could actually harm it. She combined all this with a handful of arcane spells, a passable skill with the rapier and a survival instinct honed after years as an urchin in Blairon's poor quarter. She was possibly mildly deranged, but so are all people, and if so it was insanity of a socially acceptable kind.

Pretzel stood as she and the others gathered two careful swords-lengths away from the Half-Orc bodyguards. She saw a smile flash briefly across his face quickly replaced by a studious expression. He raised his arms briefly in a welcoming gesture.

"Welcome friends," he said. His accent was pure uptown Blairon she noted. Fortunately his tone was calm- everyone else in the room was jittery to the point where she wouldn't be surprised if one of those bolts shot off by accident. She turned to Ieannia and whispered at her to watch Zorro. The Dwarf was actively sizing up the nearest guard for a spring.

"Drink for anyone?" asked Pretzel, holding up a flask from his desk.

"Thank you," mummered Carmina, accepting a glass of the amber spirit. Torfindel also accepted politely. The others shook their heads; Zorro with a muttered oath, Ieannia tight lipped. Pretzel raised his glass with pretended wistfulness.

"To absent friends," he smiled at Torfindel "I don't suppose you happen to know where your wizard friend has vanished to? My agents have been quite unable to trace her. Most disappointing. I had hoped we would all be here for our little reunion."

Carmina held her hands and face purposely immobile. She felt giddy and edgy all at once. So the Necromancer had escaped! She'd hoped of course...

Torfindel answered for the party.

"If she's any sense she'll be long out of here and away," he said with a grin "What a terrible pity you missed somebody. Not very _efficient_ of you was it?"

The polite smile on Pretzel's face didn't waver for a second.

"Please try not to bait your hosts Master Torfindel," he said urbanely, "It is most impolite."

"Oh I am sorry," Torfindel smirked sarcastically. He was feeling strangely chirpy. The Unknown Necromancer had got away, and he here was here drinking Hobbit-brewed Whiskey in the office of the Deputy Mayor instead of being shot in the back of the head by the Terrier after a brutal interrogation. Something funny was going on here and Torfindel sensed an opportunity. Ice-cream had said something about a job... 

Urg looked down curiously as his boss's ears started to twitch.

Carmina also sensed something was up. Her knowledge of Hobbit traditions was admittedly patchy but she was fairly sure they should have been dead by now. Hobbits weren't very forgiving if you made a deal with them and then failed to deliver. Pretzel's next words solved that mystery though.

"Apology accepted," he murmured "Please forgive your 'ahem' abduction, normally in such circumstances I like to give a days grace for those clever enough to run. However another matter came to my attention this morning and it was pointed out to me in no uncertain terms that a charming young man with whom we had had occasional dealings in the past was just the fellow to sort it out. Unfortunately he has disappeared since we contracted him, and so we are forced scrape the barrel somewhat and turn to you. I believe you owe us a sum of money yes?"

"Yes, but it was stolen from me-," began Torfindel.

Ignoring the Elf's explanations Pretzel started speaking again.

"Regardless of what happened you have not paid. This is unacceptable to us. Luckily for you we have a job for you. Should you survive you will be allowed to return here unmolested, all debts cleared. You may even resume trading again if you wish. If you refuse, well the normal penalty will have to apply."

Torfindel swallowed his throat abruptly dry. He was aware of just how close to death he'd actually come. If their agent hadn't gone missing he'd still be under a death sentence. But now his only way out would be to accept the job that had caused the agent's disappearance. It didn't sound like a job with a high survival chance.

"Why aren't you using your own people?" Carmina asked, breaking into his thoughts. The others nodded, or in Urg's case glowered.

Pretzel smiled thinly.

"I confess myself surprised," he said "Most groups would have wanted to know about the job first. A most perceptive question young lady. Perhaps there is some hope for you after all. The reason we cannot use our own people mistress, is that we need every single one of them here. Things have become...tense down in Blairon recently. Some of our fellow brethren, the Kostunitsas to be exact, have been under some misapprehension as to where the territory boundary ends. And alas, it has now extended to this place. They have bought up several properties here recently. We have reports of them bringing up Big People from Blairon. There have been incidents up in the woods between our pickers and theirs. The Mayor will be arriving here soon as has been rumoured. He is coming here for a final negotiation with Boris Kostunitsa. Nobody wants a war right now. When the matter is settled I will be leaving with him when he goes back to the capital, unless I somehow manage to slip up before then. The Kostunitsas won't move while I maintain my full strength in this town. But I can't spare two dozen bashers to go wandering off down into the Ratwarrens -"

Torfindel's Whiskey exited his mouth in a liquid jet that arced across the room and splattered on the bearskin rug. Carmina choked on her glass and began coughing violently whilst Ieannia pounded her back. Zorro began swearing heatedly under his breath, his hands fingering for an axe that wasn't there. Urg stood stock-still and drooled blankly.

_The Ratwarrens!_


	8. Getting in Deep

The Ratwarrens, as they are known locally, appear under a different name on any Duchy map, but it is not one spoken by the locals. They are a series of natural caves and tunnels worn out by the multitudes of underground streams that flow through this region. The caves run for miles in all directions. Mixed up with these are the remains of a Dwarven mining village- long since abandoned by that race. It is believed that the Dwarves originally panned for gold in these hills, but migrated north over the generations to their current homeland where there where richer pickings. The Dwarves took most of their valuables with them of course, and other mortals of an adventurous bend have long since looted anything they left behind over the centuries.

The place now has an evil reputation. The lower caves have become home to all kinds of animal life- Trolls, bears, wolves, lynxes and mountain lions all lurk there, as well as various subterranean nasties. The old Dwarven workings are regularly used as hideouts for bandits, drop places for freelance smugglers and resting places for humanoid raiders from the north. The place is littered with old traps set up by various paranoid thugs and the Dwarves themselves, and the old workings have become deeply unstable. Worse, a decade ago a huge spell battle between a group of Clerics of Vecna and a Pit Fiend they'd misummoned devastated the whole area. The remains of that battle still contaminate the centre of the maze, with rumours of zombies and worse still haunting it's interior.

* * *

Carmina blinked as her memories of the scroll cut off and returned her to reality. The door had opened and a Hobbit maid had hurried in and was mopping up the mess from the rug. Pretzel was cocking an amused eyebrow at the shock on the adventurer's faces. The others hadn't moved, although a smile now creased the Terrier's face.

Torfindel eventually looked up and croaked "Why do you want us to go into that place?!"

Pretzel smiled laconically and said "Yesterday we arranged a delivery of mushrooms of a particularly potent kind for a customer of ours. They were being stored in the sewers, not far from here, but as you know, the sewers run down to the warrens. This morning our customer turned up to take delivery and found the mushrooms gone and the guards butchered. Orc tracks where discovered leading deeper underground and we promised to recover the delivery. Unfortunately this current stand-off with our Kostunitsa cousins meant we needed to keep our strength here. Instead I dispatched a human mercenary we sometimes employed on their trail, but as you know I have heard nothing from him all day. Your 'mistake' brought you to my attention, and Minty here suggested that there were enough of you to be let loose in the tunnels to search for them. It's an ideal solution for us really. Our positions in town aren't compromised, we are at least attempting to fulfil our word to General Gaurdos, and if you do die then you'll have been soundly punished. A win-win situation really."

"Yar," croaked Torfindel unintelligibly.

Zorro, ever practical in matters concerning culling Orcs broke in unexpectedly.

"How many are there?" he piped up.

"We suspect that there are between eight and a dozen of them left," answered Pretzel grimly "They can't have gone far- the workings around here have been cut off from the rest of the warrens when we filled in the only linking tunnel a couple of years back. The only ways in are all above ground, where they'll not dare to travel by daylight. We're not that far north. We think they may have some sort of shrine down there and they may be hiding out down there for a few days."

"They might not even be there then!" objected Ieannia "For all you know they're just waiting for night to run for it!"

"Well then, if I were you, I'd get searching," sneered Minty "Your guards will lead you to the entrance. You'll be given your weapons back once you reach there."

"Oh, and Mr Torfindel, if you can't find the mushrooms, don't bother coming back up will you?" said Pretzel "It would be very inconvenient to have to take time off my busy schedule to oversee your ritual dismemberment."

He gestured at the Hobbit guard sergeant who looked at the party resignedly for a moment before turning and barking out orders. The hapless adventurers where herded out of the office and back through the now drowsy hall where they were joined by three more Hobbits carrying their gear. Sighing, the Hobbit leader gestured them to cross the courtyard once more.

In the office Minty Ice-cream turned to Pretzel waving a new report. "There's been a development with their wizard," she said excitedly.

Pretzel cocked his eyebrow again. "Do tell," he said.

"She was last seen talking to some mad half-breed priest just before our bashers swept up the rest of them," began Minty excitedly "We've identified the priest- one Ronald Krup. We broke into his place but it was deserted- and it had been cleaned out to. No clothes, money, food, bags or weapons inside the place. We don't think they've skipped town together yet though, and we've put a watch on the place. Perhaps she's planning a rescue attempt with some hired muscle?"

"Of course she is," said Pretzel "I'm rather hoping she will. The more of them down there the better. Now then, onto the next item. Although what that has to do with a priest I'm not altogether certain."

There was a pounding on the door. Minty hurried over and opened it slightly. A whispered conversation followed and she returned to Pretzel.

"Archdeacon Aldred wants more cash for his temple if we want to continue having his Mad Monks guard our convoys," stated she, pale-faced.

"Does he indeed? Ah well, do show him in my dear," said Pretzel to his secretary, who had appeared trembling in the doorway.

"No rest for the wicked Miss Ice-cream."


	9. A Nice Lady

The Unknown Necromancer strode calmly down the dusty road. She was shrouded in her cloak, clutching a chipped bowl in both her hands. From a distance she could easily pass for one of the innumerable beggars that abounded on Lower Wyrmling's streets, and none of the bored guards standing in front of the compound's gates gave her a second glance. She paced along the street once, then sat on its corner and waited.

Half an hour later the moment that she'd been waiting for arrived. There was a sudden shuffling amongst the gate guards as they opened the side door, allowing a new shift to step out. The old shift, four strong, began drifting of down the street, breaking up as they neared the corner. The wizard paused, selecting her mark, then followed a pair, a scruffy human man dressed in a stinking, soiled green tunic and a red bandanna, singling him out as the leader, and a blond, muscular man. He was considerably better looking then his boss, and his blue tunic rippled over a broad chest as his sandled feet devoured the ground to his destination. Whistling through browned teeth, the first guard led, walking straight towards a garishly painted log house, with the legend 'The House of Fun' emblazoned in peeling gold paint over the entrance. Two tough-looking human bashers stood idly at the front entrance. The older picked her nose. Business it seemed was slow.

The Unknown Necromancer sat down in the gutter switched her attention back to her marks. The pair had glanced around once automatically, and checking for traffic, they then walked swaggeringly across the street and up to the front entrance. Upon seeing them the thugs perked up. Here it seemed was something to engage their interest. Pushing himself away from the wall the younger of the pair stepped deliberately into the path of the first man and put a restraining hand on his chest. At the same time there was movement at one of the windows on the second floor.

The youth asked something the mage couldn't make out, and the man shook his head in the negative, before making a begging gesture. The youth laughed and replied and the man's voice went up an octave. He sounded angry. With feigned carelessness the second thug pushed herself away from the wall of the brothel while her partner stepped back, away from the angry guard.

At that moment a longhaired woman in a drab dress burst out through the front door of the building. Before either bouncer could move she fell on the stunned figure of the bandanna wearing guard with suprisingly savagery for someone in high heels. The he backed down the away shielding his face from a rain of blows, his attacker screaming insults in a high pitched voice. The female thug ran forwards aiming to grab the prostitute and end the scene, but was sent into an agonised crouch as a foot shot out and slammed between her legs. On seeing this her partner hung back, waiting for the scuffle to end before he risked his precious private parts. He didn't have to wait long as with one meaty punch to the jaw the guard was lifted off his feet to fall into an unconscious heap on the floor. With a sniff the woman gathered her dress up and walked back into the brothel, slamming the door behind it.

The mage waited until the groaning figure of the guard had picked himself up. His pal chuckled at him, then called out a question.

The bandanna man called back "Up yours, wideboy! Come and get us when you've finished with Henna. I'll be in the Hobbit."

So saying he turned and trudged of down the street and turned into the nearest alehouse. Behind him the other gate guard jeered at his retreating form.

"Wouldn't want to interrupt your fun with the Hobbit! You can stand here and watch if he isn't having any to!" he called after him, pointing to a window looking out over the street "We'll leave the window open!"

The mage followed him with her eyes as he staggered down the street into the nearest alehouse. The Necromancer was left with a choice. The pub or the cathouse? She plumped for the cathouse. It was as noisy as the alehouse but split into rooms for privacy. You could do what needed to be down and no one would hear you. All she had to do was get past the goons on the door. Plus she reckoned that bandanna man might be missed faster then the blond- he was more then a foot soldier.

Pushing down her concealing hood to show her Elven features she walked across the road towards the door. As she tried to walk in however the young male human stepped into her path.

"Payment for entry," he said, with the weary air of someone who had to ask this thing twenty times a day.

The mage halted, frustrated at the last minute.

"How much?" she asked, making no attempt to conceal her irritation.

"Depends on what you're after dear," said the older thug from behind her partner.

"Yup," he said, taking over "You go in and argue with the whores about that. The boys'll be waiting for you off the corridor. But to get past us, well, the house takes a cut too. One gold coin."

"Look, I just need to speak to the man that just walked in here," said the Necromancer desperately, who had no money on her.

She knew immediately she'd said the wrong thing, and cursed herself for a fool. Somewhere an alarm had gone off. The man's interest in her sharpened and behind him his partner knocked twice casually on the door.

"Hengest, miss? You would want to speak to him now, he's a bad sort," said the Thug, trying and failing to sound relaxed. Behind him a grill had opened and the second Thug was engaging a muttered conversation with somebody inside. As she spoke the man tried to interest the mage in the qualities of the boys available in a loud voice.

As the basher chattered on the Unknown realised that she was being stalled. She was being set up. What for she didn't know. She glanced out of the side of her eyes at the male guard. He hadn't moved closer but his muscles had tensed. The other guard closed the grill with a smack and stepped towards them, smiling falsely. The mage's instincts were screaming trouble at her. Well she wasn't going to put up with this charade any longer. If they wanted trouble they were going to get it. And, as the old saying went, if the fiend wouldn't go to Mount Celestia, then Mount Celestia must go to the fiend.

She turned and gestured abruptly to the young basher just as he was about to spring at her, intending to smash the hilt down on her unprotected head. Things did not go as he'd expected. The Elf was a blur of movement. She side-stepped his blow easily and gestured at his. A ball of glowing energy enveloped him. The effects of a _Flare_ spell exploded in front his unprotected eyes. He swung blindly at the sound of hurrying feet and sank his short sword into the side of his surprised companion who screamed in agony. She slumped away and lashed back at him with her fists frantically, but the guard triumphantly finished her with a thrust to the stomach. Even as the first spell faded the Unknown pointed at him and cast _Sleep_. He slumped gently at her feet, and drawing her dagger she quickly slit his throat. This sort of work really wasn't to her taste, but the spell wouldn't have held longer then a few seconds and she had no way to tie him up.

Moving quickly now she pushed open the front door of the building and stepped into a dark, narrow corridor. A staircase swallowed most of the space in font of the door, and further down her darkvision made out the shapes of closed doors out of which drifted a chorus of whispers, cries and moans. The mage paused, thinking where the window she saw movement in had been positioned. Then, hearing movement in the street she turned back to the door shutting it behind her. Quickly she barred it, spurred on by a cry of outrage from the street outside. She'd been right. Someone had been circling round to get behind her. She started purposefully up the stairs, ignoring the cries of alarm coming from the nearby rooms, and the heads now poking round the doors. Blows began to pound on the door, but this was a whorehouse, and its doors where designed to withstand plenty of punishment. 

The Necromancer reached the top of the stairs and glided towards her target room. She pushed past a balding man struggling into his breeches and cautiously pushed the door open with her foot. As it creaked open the blackjack swooped down through empty air where someone would have been had they simply pushed the door open. The Unknown Necromancer lashed out with her fist at the arm of her assailant. A finger brushed a knuckle, and the thug died screaming as necromantic black energy wracked through his body, draining it of life. The wizard cursed. She now only had one _Chill touch_ spell left. Mentally she prepared another spell and kicked the door open fully. The naked man in front of her fell back across his bed, the room's only piece of furniture, clutching his eyes as the _Flare_ spell blinded him. The woman was nowhere to be seen. The Unknown kicked the door shut, slipped the bolt, and in three strides crossed the room, knelt, and laid her blade across his throat.

"Be still," she whispered in his ear fiercely.

He tensed against her briefly, and she thought he might cry out, but instead he simply relaxed, slumping back against her form and away from the knife's edge.

"Listen carefully," she hissed into his ear "Do as you're told and you'll live. Give any warning, draw anyone down on us and I'll kill you exactly the way I did him."

She jerked his head significantly at the twitching corpse of the floor basher that had been guarding the door.

"It just needs a touch," she added for effect.

The man whimpered and stayed quiet. Outside the chaos subsided and the sounds of an organised search could be heard taking place. Doors banged open and questions were shouted out. The sounds where coming nearer as the searchers worked their way towards the wizard's hiding place.

"First instruction," the mage whispered sweetly in Hengest's ear "Don't let them in. You'd better sound convincing too- Capice?"

Hengest nodded quickly.

A hand tested the door, and finding it bolted hammered twice. The flimsy thing shuddered under the force of the blows.

The knocker now shouted through the door, his voice barely muffled by the wood "Open up in there! There's a search on. Everybody out!"

Hengest shouted back "It's me Hengest! What the in the Hells is going on?"

The speaker paused, presumably recognising Hengest's voice. He spoke again more hesitantly this time. The wizard suspected from what she'd seen of Hengest's behaviour, he had quite a sharp tongue.

"There's an intruder burst in through the front door. Killed Alma and Bersh at the door. Slit Bersh's throat for him we think. Some kind of Elf. The Missus has ordered a room to room search."

"This is the second floor you son of an Owlbear! What in the Abyss's name would they be doing trapping themselves in here! They'll have run right through this place and slipped out the back. Now sod off and yet me get some sleep!" Hengest yelled back.

Secretly the Necromancer was impressed by Hengest's acting. The voice on the other side of the door was unmoved though.

"Henna saw someone running round this floor," it insisted "And Henerik's missing. He was stationed up here."

Hengest glanced down at the basher's corpse. The Unknown tensed.

"Improvise," she hissed.

"Hengest?" called the voice.

"He's in here with me!" Hengest boomed out suddenly. "He's drunk as a skunk too. You won't get a peep out of him for the rest of tonight. Now leave me to sleep, I tell you. I need to be fresh for Henna tonight. Would I be here talking to you if he were in here-?"

"It's a she actually," the voice called back "And the Missus said no exceptions neither. Not even for gatemen. Now are you going to bloody let me in or not?"

"No, I'm bloody well not bloody going to!" yelped Hengest back.

The poor man was sweating profusely the Unknown Necromancer noticed giddily. He wasn't the only one. She had a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach. How did she get herself into these things? More importantly right now how did she get herself out?

"You leave me no choice then, Hengest," called back the searcher. There was a fugitive whispering outside the door, then feet padded of down the corridor.

Hengest turned to her. "They'll be going to fetch the Missus," he said. "I can't stall against her. If she tells me to open up and I don't, they'll break down that door and be in here. Couldn't you just give up?" he pleaded "There ain't nowhere to hide in here. They'll kill us both!"

The mage glanced round the room desperately. It was bare of all furniture but the bed. The dead body lay sprawled unceremoniously in the doorway. There ways a large set of windows set in the far wall and covered by drapes, but they were barred, and an obvious place to look for someone hiding was behind the curtains. They would be checked along with under the bed. The room itself was an odd one. Because of the slope of the roof the end near the head of the bed was lower. A beam supporting the roof crossed the whole room, leaving a space between it and the roof. Instantly she knew what she must do.

"Be silent. Pick up that body, dump it on the bed and cover it up. Making look like he's sleeping. Be quiet about it to, there's still people at the door."

She watched as Hengest clumsily dragged the dead man across the room and heaved him up onto the bed. Quickly, used to stripping the dead of their goods, he cast off the corpse's clothes and cast them on the floor to complete the pretence.

"Get in next to him," the mage ordered "Cover him up with that damn blanket and stay there yourself! I'm going to be climbing over you in a minute. Remember- all it takes is a touch!"

Hengest flinched then hurried to do as she said. The mage heard returning footsteps. Swiftly, as silently as possible she drew back the bolt locking the door. Turning she climbed up onto the bed and stood at its head, her feet on either side of Hengest's face. Reaching up she braced her arms against the wall and pushed off with her feet. Her right leg shot out feeling for the beam, and caught it. Bracing herself between the wall and the beam she slowly 'walked' herself up higher and higher, till she was pinched between the two, and the space was too tight to go further, and she was completely concealed from sight. It would have taken someone sitting directly underneath her and looking straight up to see her. Unfortunately her shoulders and legs where on fire from the strain. She could only keep this up for a few minutes. Gritting her teeth, she held on. Hengest stared up at her, goggling in amazement. He also realised that she was directly above his prone form. She could drop directly onto him in an instant.

In that moment a new voice, this one female, and more assured then the first called out through the door irritably "Hengest darling open this door. I haven't got time now to humour you dear. If you don't open it we'll have to break it, and you'll be banned from here."

Suprisingly humbly Hengest called out "It's open Missus,"

Outside they heard the voice ask "I thought you said it was bolted? If you've bloody well dragged me up all these stairs to beat my poor darling-"

The other voice answered doubtfully "Well it could have been stuck I suppose..."

A hand tried the door, which swung open. Footsteps sounded as people came into the room. The mage heard someone march over to the window and draw the curtains briefly. There was a rustle as the bed's cover was lifted as someone else searched underneath it. A third pair sounded, coming ever closer, and abruptly the Necromancer saw a female figure stand next to Hengest.

She clucked her tongue as she saw the slumped form of the corpse and murmured disapprovingly to Hengest "Send Henerik to me in the morning when he's awake will you dearie? And you! Sleeping with him while he's on duty. Henna's your girl. If you want someone else you just tell me instead of sleeping with the staff while they're on duty. And tell him to wash first. I can smell him from here. Honestly, working at that slaughterhouse has gone to his head. And as for you- I'll see you then to. Right now we've more pressing business."

She turned round impatiently and called "Anything?"

The bedsearcher replied in the negative and so, with a last headshake she departed. The mage hung on until the door had clicked shut and the sounds of her hunters' footsteps faded away, then with an audible gasp of relief she dropped heavily onto Hengest, knocking the wind out of him.

Producing her dagger once more she smiled down at him.

"Be a good boy Hengest and tell the nice lady what she needs to know," she mimicked softly.


	10. Question Time

The Unknown Necromancer stepped out of the door, thanked it's guard then strode briskly down the street. Once she'd rounded the corner she broke into a fast trot and didn't stop running until she'd put three streets between herself and the 'House of Fun'.

She'd walked out of Hengest's room after waiting half an hour, dressed in the dead Henerik's shirt and Hengest's britches. The shirt was too tight and the legs of the britches too long but beggars couldn't be choosers. She'd also hacked her distinctive three-foot braid back to shoulder length where it still covered her Elven ears. Just to make sure she had been wearing the widest brimmed of Henerik's hats too. She'd pulled the hat low over her face and stridden out confidently, just as if she were another customer. She'd left him bound, gagged and unconscious in his room, and shut the door behind her quietly. He might be able to wriggle out in a couple of hours if he was fast enough.

She turned over Hengest's information in her mind. In between the babbled pleas for his life he'd given her the password for the gate to Yaggis Compound for that afternoon. Sadly it was too late for it to be of any use to her, but after a bit more threatening, he came up with something far more interesting to her. He'd volunteered about his cohort, who he only referred to as Minos. The gateguard where organised in a quasi-military hierarchy. Minos was his shift's sergeant, and was entrusted with the next shift's password. This allowed the previous shift to enter into the compound, which, Hengest told the wizard, was considered a separate area from the House itself, where security was far tighter. Even better Minos had stolen a key to the gate's portal opening. Take him and they had a way into and out of the compound. Struck by a sudden suspicion, she'd asked Hengest why Henerik had been in the room he'd reserved with Minos and Henna. He'd looked away at that but eventually admitted that Henerik had been waiting for Minos, who'd been turned away at the door for brawling the last time he'd been there. Smiling at this new information the Unknown Necromancer walked unseeing through the streets, scheming about how to wrinkle the sergeant out of his pub. Behind her a large black cat watched the Hungry Hobbit from across the street.

She turned the final corner and almost bumped straight into the priest.

Covering her surprise she asked "Have you got the horses?"

"Yup," he nodded suspiciously "They're quartered in the stables. We'll have to pick them when we're ready."

"Have you sold the candles?"

Ron nodded wordlessly, worried by her bland expression. She'd had the same look back in the temple when she was trying to talk him into joining this mad scheme.

"Give me the money," she demanded holding out her hand.

He handed over a leather pouch and she frowned in concentration.

"Just give me a minute. There's going to be one or two things I need to pick up, then we're going to see a friend of mine. After that...well we'll then see," she said sweetly, smiling at Ronald.

The Cleric began to feel uneasy. She was being nice to him. That spelt trouble.

The wizard stepped into the shop and returned several minutes latter with a tape measure. She carefully took Ron's measurements then disappeared into the store again. When she returned the purse was a good deal lighter and she was carrying a leather jockstrap, huge pair of leather fishnet tights, a huge black cloak and a make-up kit, which she proceeded to bundle into the bag while the Ceric watched suspiciously.

"What are we going to do with that stuff?" he asked.

"When I left you I watched the compound where Torfindel and the others are being held. When their guard shifts changed I followed the commander of the day watch to a whorehouse where he was beaten up by his ex-mount's big sister, a girl called Henna, in revenge for a pasting he handed her little brother the last time he was there. He then staggered off into some pub opposite where I have no doubt he'll still be, drunk, broke and horny. He's got the keys to the gate and the day's password. That'll be current until the sun goes down and the evening watch turns in for the night shift. We still need to get him though, and we can't do that while he's in the pub. We need to lure him out with a decoy and we'll need help to subdue him when we do. What we're going to do with this stuff is..." she trailed off and gave the Cleric an endearing look before standing on tiptoes and whispering in his ear. Ron's expression twisted through interest, shock, horror then outrage.

Everyone standing inside the Store suddenly heard a deep voice shout "YOU WANT ME TO DO WHAT?!!!!"

* * *

The Necromancer and the Cleric hurried down the cobbled street towards Oglad's Pie Shop still arguing over the details of the mage's honey trap.

"I still can't believe you want a member of the clergy to impersonate a rentboy, and a street one at that!" snarled the Cleric "you could have at least given me some clas-"

"Look, we've been over this twenty times tonight," repeated the Necromancer wearily "We need Minos. He holds the postern keys and has this afternoon's password. That's still valid until six- by which time we'll be inside the compound. He's on his own and half-drunk by now. He can't get his usual lay. It's perfect. Is it my fault the Gods made him gay?"

"It's these clothes," moaned the Cleric. "I'll look ridiculous for Corriellion Levethian's sake! Have you ever met a whore? None of them'd be seen dead in stuff like this! In fact they would dead if they wore these clothes. It'd be a race between the psychos and the cold to see which got them first. Half of them are addicts! They all wear normal gear! Anything else is just too much trouble."

The Necromancer shot her partner a curious look.

"How would you know anything about prostitutes?" she grinned at him, raising her eyebrows. The Cleric was having none of it however.

"You try hanging around on the streets preaching in the evening," Ron said wearily "Usually them and the mushheads are the only audience I have. They say listening helps pass them the evening. They can't understand a word of Elvish of course but they like the hymns."

"Yes..." drew out the Necromancer thoughtfully "Anyhow I've already told you why we need the costume. He's going to be drunk. We need to make it obvious to him. Unless you want to tattoo 'get it here big boy'over your forehead?"

Ronald flushed and whined "Couldn't you just ensorcell him? Save all this trouble?"

The Unknown Necromancer scowled, unpleasant memories of the cathouse bubbling to the surface of her mind.

"I've used the only spell of that kind I had prepared already today, and there isn't the time to memorise it again!" she snapped. "Besides," she continued "we're trying to be inconspicuous. How do you think people will react if I just walked up to him in the middle of a bar and did this?"

She struck an exaggerated spell casting pose as she spoke. The Cleric rolled his eyes and gestured at the entrance to Oglad's Pie Shop. "I just hope you know what you're doing, that's all," he said. "I always know what I'm doing," stated the wizard flatly, and she yanked Oglad's door open and in they stepped. The interior of the Pie shop was old and crumbling. Various rusty agricultural implements hung unused from the walls. The floorboards, stained and splintered, creaked under the weight of the pair as they stepped forwards. At this time the Shop was just beginning to fill up with the evening trickle of customers, and was nearly deserted. 

Ignoring Oglad's inquiring glance the Unknown Necromancer threaded her way through tables still cluttered with the lunchtime rubbish to a female Hobbit seated by the window. Dressed in well cared for leather armour, she sat slumped in front of a half-eaten omelette, unmoving. Ron pursed his lips sympathetically. Oglad's meals tended to get you like that.

The Unknown Necromancer stopped abruptly beside the recumbent Hobbit as a familiar smell hit her nostrils. She looked sharply down at the half-eaten omelette in front of her. Carefully picking up a slice she nibbled off a small piece which she immediately spat out.

"Deep and empty!" she swore incredulously "I thought I recognised that smell. The taste seals it- that omelette," she gestured for the Cleric's inquiring gaze "is laced with mushrooms." She reached down and began picking up chunks. "Look here's a banger. This one's a Button, these are M & Ms, all sorts. No wonder she's comatose. I don't understand this. This omelette's worth a small fortune. There's no way Yeseld could have afforded it, and she'd have needed to rob a dozen mushheads to collect this lot. Plus it's always been rootbeer she's been after before."

Ronald looked about nervously.

"This could be a trap," he said uneasily "they know she's one of your friends and they're watching us-"

"Don't be stupid," said the mage scathingly "we'd have been picked up by now."

She turned and gestured at the deserted shop. "And this place is just so crawling with gangsters-"

She was interrupted by a blood-curdling scream behind her, followed by a sudden crash. Whirling around and half drawing their blades they saw Yesel standing bolt upright. Her chair lay fallen behind her. Pale faced, her face glazed with horror she pointed straight at the Necromancer and moaned "Spider. Big. Green. Crawly-"

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" whispered the wizard frantically, frozen in place. Her eyes darted frenziedly round, seeking. "Find it," she whispered from the corner of her mouth to Ron.

The Cleric grinned at her.

"You don't like spiders do you?" he asked teasingly "Oh hold on, it's a big one alright. Here, just let me..."

Clumsily he leaned forwards and plucked something off the Necromancer's hair. She screamed and crashed forwards onto the table.

The Cleric held up piece of leaf for closer inspection and said innocently "Oops. My mistake. Are you alright?"

The Unknown Necromancer shot the priest a glare that promised they would discuss this later. The Hobbit meanwhile had sunk into a foetal position on the ground where she was twitching and moaning. She shook her head as if to clear it, and looked at the pair standing over her.

"Hurry! Get me to my room. Ooowwwwgods here comes the rush again- arrggh! Please! No, notthespidersagain-uggh."

There was a thud as her head hit the ground again and she lapsed into unconsciousness.

Ron knelt down and gently took her pulse, which fluttered madly. Ever the intellect the Cleric glanced up at the wizard and said "She's semi-conscious, but hallucinating intermittently. Her pulse is racing."

The Necromancer dropped into a crouch next to Ronald and picked up the Hobbit by her shoulders.

"You take her legs," she ordered brusquely "Come on! We'll take up to her room. It's only across the street. We can't do anything for her here."

Ignoring the curious onlookers the two lifted the Hobbit between them and carried her through the door. Outside, one supporting her on each shoulder, they set off back to the run down tenancy which Ysel called home. The mage's Elven memory had stored the whereabouts of Yelsd's room perfectly, right down to the stench, and finding the Hobbit's room presented them no difficulty. Entering was harder. Ysel had locked her door. Knowing the absent landlord would be no use whatsoever, and with no key, the exasperated Cleric simply kicked the flimsy obstacle in. Two minutes latter a chair was under the door handle as a makeshift lock, and Ysel was thrashing around in her own bed. The Cleric stood off to the side of the room gazing out of the window while the Necromancer looked on at her friend pensively. They needed a third partner to for her rescue bid. The Cleric looked up at her. She looked back at the Cleric.

"It's a lot of power to use up on a non-Elf," he said doubtfully "Plus she's a thief. I have to tell you I'm not comfortable about it."

"We need her,"

"Plus she's your friend, mmh? We're not supposed to use our powers for family gain. Priests are here for the community," said the Cleric, giving her a considering stare.

"This particular community would kill you if they found you helping me. They've no use for you anyway; they're not Elves. You've picked your side already," pointed out the mage "Now you and me will be inside that compound. We need a third person. Someone to guard our backs and watch the horses. Ysel is the only person outside that jail that I'd trust. And yes, she is a thief, and that's precisely why I want her. Who better to have with you on a break in?"

"A better thief perhaps. Certainly one in better condition," observed Ronald dryly.

"This one will owe us a big debt, and that's a big favour to have with someone. I trust her. No other independent thief in this town would cross the Milosevices for the amount we could offer, and the Kostunitsas won't help us. Too petty for them, plus it's an internal feud. They'll respect the old traditions if there's no gain in it for them. That reason enough for you, you uncompromising bastard?" snapped the Unknown Necromancer. "I admit I want to make her right again anyway," she admitted "What friend would I be if I didn't try? It hurts me to see her like this. I want her to be up and about so I can bash her ears for being so stupid. But the decisions yours."

The Cleric sucked his teeth for a moment then nodded sharply, as if listening to an internal dialogue.

Avoiding her eyes he said "Okay, I'll try. I always carry some Delay Poison scrolls with me anyway. So many people here need them what with the mushrooms. I can't get rid of everything she's taken though, there's just too many. I can cure the worst, but she'll still be confused and vapid. I'm doing this strictly for the rescue of course."

The Necromancer rolled her eyes skyward, then decided reluctantly to let him keep up his pretence. She suspected that if he'd been on his own Ysel would be up and moving by now without any of the theological soul-searching, but decided to apply restraint. For now…

"Priests!" was her only comment.

The Cleric removed his helmet and cloak and hung them from the door peg. He laid Ysel out on her back on the filthy floor and knelt next to her. He took her pulse and waited patiently until she'd quietened. Judging her ready, he realised her wrist and sank back, beginning the chant he'd been taught as a novice. Slowly he fell into a trance. When he had closed off all sensation from the outside world, he imagined the room as he had last seen it, but with his perspective from above. Holding this image in his brain, he then allowed his awareness to seep out of himself, until he was in fact floating above his entranced body. Careful to keep his body in sight he opened his mind's eye to the flows of magic.

He would take his time here. A priest directs the magical energy they receive from their prayers in much the same way as a wizard or sorcerer. As each spell is fully formed and memorised in their minds after every prayer session usually a simply word and gesture is all that is needed, even in serious healing. But if a healing spell is not to be wasted a priest must know what it is they are curing. Ronald wanted to direct his spells to specific poisons, and the Hobbit had half a dozen of them in her system.

To Ronald she appeared translucent, as did the entire scene below him to his spirit eyes. Only her network of arteries and veins, filled with magic-tainted juices held any trace texture or colour. Her small form was criss-crossed with dozens of streamers, each a mushroom consumed. The Cleric counted five different colours, each hue a different species.

Summoning the power contained in the scrolls he mouthed a quick prayer to his God before reaching out and touching one of the streamers, a rancid yellow colour. Like a lightning bolt earthing itself, a network of gold power flashed out from his finger, each line striking a yellow streamer and neutralising it, purging the Hobbit's system of the drug. As Ron watched one streamer began to dissipate, smoking away into a dense fog above the Hobbit's body, before drifting apart. Working quickly now the Cleric repeated the spell twice more, leaving only a mild blue and a blood red mixing through the thief's body. Having no more spell scrolls effective against the poisons he withdrew himself back into his own body and slowly opened his eyes.

In front of the Cleric, Ysel groaned and feebly pulled herself upright. Wincing theatrically in the gloomy room, she gave a start of surprise when she noticed the other two occupants. Fighting against the fogginess in her mind she cursed her carelessness in checking the stolen mushrooms. How she came to be in her own rooms with the Necromancer and a lanky Half-Elf towering over her she didn't know, but it was infinitely preferable to being chucked unconscious out onto the streets of Lower Wyrmling. She groaned again in greeting to the wizard, who knelt down and placed a hand across her forehead.

"How are you feeling, little one?" she asked in a motherly fashion.

Before the thief could answer another voice cut across her fragile consciousness, this one crisp and impersonal, the detached tone of someone engaged in their professional capacity.

"Her body is dehydrated and tired, but in perfect psychical health. Motor control will be returning to normal, although she'll have one bad reaction-headache from all those spells. Too much magic in too short a space of time," said the Cleric. He frowned in thought, then continued "Mentally, she's still under the influence of two mild strains of mushrooms. She'll be short of temper, underestimate risks, lose concentration easily and be prone to hallucinations if placed under extreme stress."

"Is she fit to help us?" asked the Unknown Necromancer over the nettled Hobbit's head.

"She's fine. Just don't ask her to unpick three locks while running on a rotating barrel," replied the Cleric.

Feeling slightly like sack meat being inspected for its quality Ysel pettily stepped on the Necromancer's foot to gain her attention. When the elf looked down in annoyance she smirked back up at her.

"I'm fine Neccy," she said, using the pet name the wizard hated.

"In that case some thanks might be in order," snapped the Elf.

"Oh yes," said Ysel hurriedly "Many thanks, many thanks. Much gratitude felt. But three questions. One, how did I get here? Two, who is Kettlehead over there, and three, what has he just done to me?"

Ignoring the Clerics muttered comments about the sins of ingratitude, the mage smiled down at her friend's brashness.

'Typical of a Hobbit to smart-mouth us,' she thought.

"Ysel, this here is Ronald," she said "He's a priest. We found you splayed out at Oglad's and brought you here. He used healing magic to get you back on your feet."

The Cleric shyly stuck a hand out, which, was taken warily by the Hobbit.

"My friends call me Ron," he said with a bashful smile.

"Nice to meet you."

"Ysel, when we found you we weren't just passing through," said the Unknown Necromancer tentatively "We're in a bit of a fix right now, and we came to get your help."

Ysel paused, her thoughts working furiously. The Hobbit was a caperous creature, with a strong streak of mischief in her. She resented obligations being imposed upon her especially by custom or law. She hadn't asked for the priest's help and now she was beholden to him for his gift. But she was also given to impetuous acts of generosity. The Necromancer was one of her few friends in this town. And the Cleric had expended a lot of power on a stranger with no guarantee he would have the favour returned. Her survival instincts warned her against unnecessarily exposing herself to danger, whilst her sense of adventure, stirred by drugs tingled in anticipation. Aren't you bored? It whispered to her. Here was the chance for some action!

Whilst she warred with her thoughts she studied the pair in front of her with heightened awareness. With a surge of shock she realised that the Unknown Necromancer's usually indomitable expression had been replaced by a subdued one. She sat huddled, her cloak pulled tight around her. Next to her the Cleric sat hunched and grim-faced. They both had a hunted air about them.

The silence in the room had strained to breaking point. The Necromancer leaned forward.

"Ysel?" she asked softly.

A Cheshire cat grin spread over the Hobbit's face. She patted the bed beside her.

"Come and tell us your problem," she said.

* * *

It was getting late as the three of them hurried up to the Hungry Hobbit. The Necromancer shooed the reluctant Cleric and his thief shadow across to the mouth of a fetid alleyway. With practised ease the Hobbit faded into the darkness, trying to ignore the dizziness she felt. The trouble was it was just so difficult to concentrate!

The wizard meanwhile sank on her knees and scooped up the black cat, which, had trotted across the street to meet her. It purred contentedly as she scratched it under its chin.

"Hello Smokey, how is our prey?" she thought-sent him.

Her familiar sent her a back an image of a deserted street, as well as a pulse of boredom. Cats are restless creatures. Smokey wanted some action. Trying not to laugh, the mage sent him a mental picture of a huge mouse dressed in Minos's clothes pinned under a paw squeaking frantically. The cat stretched and yawned, unsheathing its claws before stalking off to the alleyway in pretend indifference. Ignoring her familiar, the Necromancer, walked into the smoky interior of the tavern and watched for her man. She found him seated alone, close to the entrance. He hugged a final solitary jack to himself, empties spread out in front of him.

She walked straight towards him, making no attempt to disguise the fact that she was intent upon him. He looked up as she neared him and his expression changed from one of glazed misery to glazed wariness. With a look of rat-like cunning his hands disappeared under the table, and the wizard guessed there was some sort of weapon trained on her. She stopped while the table was still between them and spread out her hands.

"Evening basher, y'up for business?" she asked evenly.

His face twisted into a sneer, but he visibly relaxed. A whore wasn't a threat.

"Am not interested in ya girl. Beat it."

He waved at her dismissivly, but the Necromancer was not to be moved. She leaned across the table to him.

"I'm not for sale. He's waiting outside, at the alley mouth. Come to the door and see?" she asked.

Suspicion warred with interest on Minos's ugly face. Interest won, the drink he had consumed overcoming caution.

"Aye, but only to the door mind. An' your goin' first girl."

He stood up, weaving unsteadily, and she saw that he carried a small crossbow pistol, not quite aimed at her. Yet. Tensely she led the way back to the alehouse entrance. The Milosevic gate guard lurched after her boozily. She pushed open the door and turned to the side, beckoning the Cleric across. Minos lurched forwards and leaned against the doorframe. Upon seeing the Cleric draw closer, his cloak still drawn around him he finally lowered the crossbow pistol and leered appreciatively. As they'd rehearsed the Cleric halted legs akimbo in front of Minos and, as if opening a pair of curtains spread his cloak open. He held the pose for a heartbeat, giving Minos a flash of fishnet stockings and bulging thighs, before dropping the protective cloak back again. He paused and shot a poisonous glare at a street tramp who'd whistled his appreciation, before teetering on pink strap-on high heels back to the alleyway.

Minos screwed his face up in thought.

"Yeesss, why not," he slurred to himself "How much?"

The wizard watched him cautiously, trying to judge how much money he had left.

"For you, the special first-time rate of two gold pieces," she said.

"Two bloody coins! Is that all you think I'm worth! Bog off! Hang on one minute, I'm coming over here to handle this myself."

"Deal," said Minos hurriedly passing the coins to her.

There was a crash from the alley where Ron had toppled over his heels, and was now clawing at the wall trying to right himself while his cloak flapped freely in the wind. The old tramp was laughing and slapping his knees while Minos fugitively tried to cross the street without swaying. The Necromancer clapped her hand over eyes and sighed.

The Cleric had just hauled himself upright when Minos arrived. The drunk squeezed the priest's backside hard, before grasping him by his cloak fastener, and dragging him staggering, deeper into the alley. With a smile the mage sprinted across the street herself, and plunged into the shadows.

Ysel woke from her trance as the pair crashed down the alley. The pink fairies dissolved in front of her eyes as she fought against the mushrooms to remember what she was doing here. Acting more on instinct then thought she hefted the blackjack in her hand and stepped out of her pool of darkness as the first man passed her. Her attack was a Hobbit classic as the blackjack shot out and crunched into the man's knee. He howled in sudden pain and pitched forward, dragging the second man, who Ysel dimly recognised, down with him. This was unfortunate for him as the club smashed into the front of his skull as she completed her backstroke.

Minos lay shocked on the floor of the alleyway, his left kneecap smashed, pinned under the weight of the stunned Cleric. Fumbling for his dagger he had no hand free to protect his face when a black shape launched itself at him and scrapped its claws down his cheeks. His screams ended abruptly as Ysel struck the right head the second time. The wizard arrived in time to see the Hobbit standing sheepishly over the two felled Big Folk, her blackjack behind her back while Smokey cleaned his fur in the corner, as if denying any responsibility.

"Another triumph I see," she said acidly.

Together they managed to pull the groaning Ronald off the unconscious form of Minos and propped him against the wall. Ysel leaned down and slapped his face, trying to hurry him round. The Cleric shot to his feet as if stung, and Ysel left the ground with him, with a squeak of alarm. The wizard tried not to laugh as the unfortunate Hobbit dangled by her wrist, her face inches from Ron's furious expression.

"The next time I'm clobbered by you Munchkin, I'll use you as a football for the next three streets!" he hissed.

He would have gone on but the wizard broke in sharply "Come over here Ron, he's out cold. We can't question him like this!"

Muttering the priest dropped the Hobbit into a heap on the floor and stalked over to inspect their prisoner. Behind him Ysel picked herself up and pulled a face at his retreating back, before sighing and giving the prisoner a quick frisking. Having relieved him of his crossbow pistol, keys and a hidden knife, she nodded to Ron to begin to awaken him.

Ronald glanced briefly at Minos's injuries, but ignored them. They weren't immediately life threatening and with any luck the pain would help shorten the interrogation. Bringing Minos round was quickly accomplished by the priest. A brief gesture and a word of power and a gallon of water of freezing water spun out of the air drenched the unfortunate Minos back to wakefulness. The Cleric began pulling his clothes back on, waiting for Minos to come back to full wakefulness, but the Necromancer was acutely aware of time passing. Last minute traffic would hold up the closing of the compound's gates for the night, but not forever. She reached out and slapped him back to wakefulness. He awoke to a circle of faces staring down at him.

He opened his eyes and glared at her, but made no move to grab her; Ysel was covering him with his crossbow pistol.

"Mr Minos," said the Unknown Necromancer.

It wasn't a question. Minos's eyes widened as he realised this wasn't an ordinary robbery. She waved the set of keys in front of him. He made a half-grab but stopped the motion as the Cleric, cat and Ysel all started forwards.

"Mr Minos," repeated the Necromancer evenly "We need the evening password for the side gate of Yaggis House. We know you know it. You're on the gate guard, and you need to get back inside yourself. Understand we will get it one way or the other. You can tell us willingly, or be… persuaded."

Minos was still drunk. Ignoring his knee he stared with drunken contempt at the Elf.

"Run along girl and go back to your dolls. You don't scare me," he sneered.

He felt himself picked up and slammed upside down against the wall. The blood rushed to his head, and when he opened his eyes he founded himself face-to face with a leather-clad Hobbit holding a blackjack. Her pupils were wide open, and dribble run down open side of her slightly open mouth. The stench of 'bangers' rolled off her breath. It dawned on Minos that he was face to face with a crazy.

Somewhere behind two figures blocking the sun the Unknown Necromancer said, "That was the wrong answer Mr Minos."

* * *

Gurney the tramp watched enviously as the guard and the prostitute staggered into the alley. He was just about to shuffle off and see if he could find any drunken bashers to thieve from when he noticed that the Elven woman who had pimped the boy had crossed into the alley mouth. Always on the look out for anything unusual he settled down to watch her progress. It helped pass the time plus occasionally someone would pay for information.

He wasn't particularly surprised when she drew her dagger and charged up the alley suddenly. To his experienced eye it had already begun to look like a robbery, probably ending with murder.

"Milo might pay to know who offed one of his shift," he thought happily, thinking of the extremely paranoid human who stewarded the mansion gates of the local Milosevic pad. He hated being inconvenienced like that. After all if someone began offing gate guards then Milo was only a step above.

He didn't have to wait long. Just as he settled down to watch he heard a babble of voices, followed by a thud as something heavy slapped into the alley wall. As he would latter recount tremblingly to Boss Pretzel himself, the next few moments sounded something like this:

Krummptsplash.

"Nnnghhhowowarrgh-"

Krunch.

Classsshung.

"Arrrggghh-"

Splat.

Slugggh.

Smack.

Smack.

Smack.

Smack.

"Whuun,"

"Whoaaaaa-"

Crack.

"MMMmmmuhhh…"

"Are you ready to talk yet?" said a female Elven voice.

"Sod off, bitch," came a croak Gurney thought might be Minos.

"Wrong answer again," said the Elven voice with a distinctly impatient overtone.

"Arrrgghh! No! Not the cat! Not the catnotthe-"

"Arrrrrrrrggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-"

Screee, scree, scree.

"NAAAggghhhhhh!"

"Crash,"

"OOOhhhhhh…"

"He's ready," another Elven voice said, this one a deeper masculine one.

"Mr Minos, it's really up to you," said the first voice sweetly "Either you can tell us the password, or…

Gurney didn't hear any more at this point as he was high-tailing it off to warn Milo when he tripped arse over tip over a piece of trash left in the gutter and knocked himself clean out.

After the tramp's abrupt exit from the realm of consciousness three figures cautiously poked their heads out and took in the deserted street. One broke away and returned with a string of horses, over which a fourth form was hastily flung. They cantered off, leaving the road deserted, except for a little black cat, which trotted up to the alleyway mouth and began to clean itself contentedly. Presently it cocked its head, as if hearing a voice only it could sense. With a growl of irritation it trotted off towards a large whitewashed compound across the other side of the village.

* * *

Brother Cadel of the order of the Raving Mad Atheist Monks of Heironeous was quietly brushing down the steps of his order's ornate temple when a thundering sound made him look up. He had just enough time to sink into a terrified crouch around his broom before the herd of horses was upon him. They crashed over and around him leaving the monk shaking with fear but miraculously unharmed. Such was the shock to his wits it took him several minutes to notice the prone figure beside him, unceremoniously jettisoned from a passing horse.


	11. The Calm Before the Storm

The temple clock was just striking six when a horde of clumsily herded horses thundered up to the gates of Yaggis House. One, an old and gentle horse, broke away from the mass, ridden by a Hobbit strapped precariously in place. She shouted the afternoon password of 'trouble' at the sniggering guard quartet who unquestioningly opened the door. The night shift was replacing the day watch, but the gate guards where always the last to be relieved, their replacements reluctant and slow. No one was going to stop a Hobbit with the correct password. Leave security to the nobs up at the fortified mansion was their attitude. Their job was just to keep the locals out of the compound grounds.

The Necromancer smiled as they cantered swiftly into the grounds. Before her spread the walled grounds of Yaggis House. The mansion itself, a plush whitewalled hall sprawled at one end of the complex. On the opposite side stood a half-dozen sheds, several guarded. Scattered through out the centre of the compound several crumbling storehouses and, from the stink wafting in the air, a latrine house. The rest of the ground was a dusty space, intermittently camped on by the sidekicks of those with an audience with the privileged few within.

The wizard ignored the house. Her attention was focused on the sheds, where inside of one according to Hengest, her friends fearfully awaited the dawn.

The Cleric meanwhile was staring at the mansion intensely.

"Necromancer," he said levelly "your friends. One is a Half-Drow isn't she?"

"Mmm," agreed the mage vaguely, wondering if they could inspect the sheds now, or should wait till dark.

"Is that her walking into the house, surrounded by guards there?" said Ronald, pointing out a distance female figure.

Shock flooded the Unknown Necromancer.

"Wee Jass!" she swore "What are they doing over there?!"

To the pair's horror the Hobbit immediately leaned over to one of the gate guards, their surly Hobbit leader and pointed at the vanishing group of prisoners.

"What's with the Drow?" she slurred.

The guard captain gave her an odd look.

"You ain't heard?" he asked curiously.

"She's been drunk all evening," lied Ron, grabbing the reins from the dull-eyed Hobbit's grasp and trying to pull her away.

The captain shrugged, evidently satisfied with the explanation. Ysel's appearance no doubt helped.

"She's with a bunch brought in this afternoon," he called after them helpfully "Boss wants to see them about some sorta job. If you want to see the Drow she'll be back in shed four soon enough. They ain't exactly happy to be here, if you catch my drift."

Ron waved his acknowledgement of the information, and they rode off a fair distance before pretending to make camp for the night. The horses were kept saddled but tied up. The mage just hoped nobody took any more notice of them.

"Warn me the next time you try something like that!" Ron snapped at Ysel.

"You got your information didn't you?" she retorted, spreading an old cloak on the ground as if for a mattress.

"Another trick like that and we'll be joining them for a reunion!" rebutted the Cleric.

"Knock it off you two," said the wizard softly, "We need to think about this carefully. Torfindel isn't in the cell anymore. They are all up at the house. Now, whatever business Pretzel has with them he'll do up there, but their prison is out here. They'll have to be brought back here, and that will be our moment. Think about it!" she exclaimed excitedly "There'll be only a handful of guards compared to the cells. It's half the distance to the gates if we hit them in the middle of the compound. Plus we know that their arms and legs are free while they're walking- Carmina was free wasn't she Ron?"

The Cleric nodded his affirmation.

The Necromancer shot up and began pacing excitedly, thinking hard.

"Smokey can watch the house for us," she said "We'll know as soon as they leave. We can be in position and ambush them. The guards won't suspect a thing."

"How did Smokey get in here?" asked Ysel curiously.

"I sent him a message," replied the mage carelessly "He just trotted in on the heels of some bunch of travellers or something. Now let me think."

"We couldn't break them out quietly at night like we planned before," she muttered to herself "This'll have to be done quickly, before they can organise. Odds are better at first-"

As the other two watched she paced to more circles of their 'camp' muttering to herself. Ronald found his attention wandering, and he found himself staring thoughtfully at the Hobbit captain of the gate guard. Something the way the Hobbit was looking at them…

Abruptly it came to him and he gave a snort of laughter, cutting the Unknown Necromancer off in mid-thought.

"You want to lower the odds at the gate?" he asked playfully.

"Well yes," said the Necromancer, wondering what Ron was getting at "We'll need to pull those things open to ride out of here. I'd love it if we didn't have to kill four heavily armed thugs first."

"Our gate boss is watching Ysel," the Cleric informed them "very appreciatively."

Ysel looked at him scathingly, then turned and gave a small wave to the guard. To her surprise he waved eagerly back. She looked up to find the Cleric grinning down at her and dangling his fishnet tights.

"You can't talk," she said.

"That old building to our right seems pretty deserted," he replied speculatively "Lovely gloomy interior. Lots of privacy. A Hobbit would be nearly blind. It strikes me that Elves could see in there very well though."

Ysel to was thoughtfully regarding the building.

"Of course, somebody'd have to stay here," she said.

"I will," said the Necromancer wearily, seeing the glint of excitement that had kindled in the eyes of her partners "I need a clear head in case Smokey sends a message."

"Glad that's settled then," said Ron vaguely "I think I'll just go for a walk."

"I will too," said Ysel, not meeting anyone's eyes.

Whistling, they set off in different directions, the Hobbit swaying gently.

The mage looked around her catiously. Seeing no one watching she flipped back a cloak to reveal the selection of blades they'd smuggled inside with them. With all three already carrying two knives and a blade- short swords for Ysel and the Necromancer and a long sword for the Cleric- they'd managed to buy and smuggle in another long sword, a short sword and three daggers. These were the weapons they were going to arm the others with when the breakout came. Quietly the mage began stuffing daggers into her belt.

* * *

Standing behind the half-closed door of the deserted storehouse, his heart beating quickly, Ronald watched Ysel's progress towards the gate. He saw the Hobbit guard who'd been leaning idly against the wall scratching his backside spot her and stand up, puffing his chest out. His three subordinates noticed and began sniggering amongst themselves. Ysel walked straight up to the captain and said something to him that made those around him break into gales of laughter, and him to blush scarlet to the roots of his hair. She asked a question to which he nodded vigorously. She indicated the storehouse with a slow tilt of her head and glided off, throwing a last 'come-hither' look after the guard, who was busy ranting at his men. Finally he turned and scampered after Ysel. Without his disciplinary presence two guards immediately sat down and began a dice game. The third looked on with a bored expression.

Ysel was almost at the door, the Captain scarcely a dozen paces behind. Ron faded into the shadows behind the door. Wearing his black cloak he was invisible to Hobbit eyes in the gloomy interior. Carefully he mumbled a word of power over his blade and felt the enchantment take hold in the steel, endowing it with a magical cutting edge. He placed the glowing sword under his cloak, cutting off its revealing light. It would only last a minute or so, but that was plenty of time for his purpose.

Ysel crashed in through the door swinging it shut behind her, and frantically fumbling for her sword. Her blackjack was safely back at the camp after the last debacle. Her blood was roaring in her veins, and everything seemed crystal clear. She was hearing every little sound from the creaking of the door to her own sharp, shallow breaths. Even her skin tingled in contact with the air. She'd told the guard to follow her to the shed because she had 'something personal she wanted to show him'. He'd tumbled after her of course. She'd felt dirty after contact with him, as if somehow his own corruption had been passed to her. Now though, with mushrooms and adrenaline rushing through her it was as if she'd been washed clean. What was going to happen was necessary to make amends for stealing the damn mushrooms in the first place, not that she was ever going to tell the Necromancer about that.

She hid her naked blade under her cloak and faced away from the door as her wooer crashed through the same door, already half out of his leather jerkin. Ron stepped out immediately and lashed out with the glowing sword, opening a huge gash along the Hobbit's shoulders. The captain's forward speed however saved him from having his head parted from his shoulders and he immediately rolled forwards and turned towards his attacker with uncanny swiftness. A throwing knife appeared in his hand as he hurled it straight at the Cleric's face. Without his shield, and surprised at the speed of his enemy, the Cleric barely had time to turn his face. It saved his life, but the knife pierced the cheek, filling his mouth with blood. Immediately the guard scooped up some dirt and flung it at the priest for good measure, as he backed off, putting some distance between him and his opponent. His hands began fumbling for his sword, caught up in his half-discarded armour.

Seeing Ron choking and floundering Ysel launched herself at the captain, who was still struggling to draw his short sword. Highlighted against the light thrown by the Cleric's sword she saw him easily. Her sword pierced him in between his shoulder blades and drove down, slicing through the lungs to the heart. He gave a small choking noise, stiffened, and then slowly slid off the sword and onto the dirt floor with a thud. She was glad she couldn't see his face in the dark.

With a small cry of pain Ron pulled the knife out of his cheek and threw it away. Holding his hand over the injury he thickly mumbled an incantation and the wound closed. Carefully he inspected the blade for poison, but to his relief it was clean. He looked around for Ysel, wanting to thank her for her timely intervention. He spotted her sitting next to the body of the captain staring down at it blankly. Worried, Ronald hurried over, thoughts about shock or cracking up under the strain flitting through his head. But as he walked up Ysel shook herself and stood up. Carefully she wiped her sword on the captain's cloak and slid it back into its sheath.

"Sorry," she said quietly, unusually somber "I've never killed anyone like that before."

"Well I'm glad you did," replied the Cleric thankfully, "you saved my bacon, that's for sure."

The Hobbit didn't respond. Ron was not the most intelligent person on the material plane as he would have happily admitted, but he did have a powerful intuitive ability and plenty of medical experience. He saw Ysel needed to take her mind off the thing on the floor. It wasn't an easy fact coming to terms with killing someone in cold blood, and the little thief could well become fixated by it, useless to herself and everyone around her.

"Go and search this place for anything we could use," he urged her gently, "I'll take care of this thing."

Ysel looked up at him. After the rush of sensation before the fight had come a frightening numbness. She'd felt sluggish and purposeless. Now at least she had a small goal. It was all she needed. Pulling herself together she stood up and gave the Cleric a tired smile. New confidence coursed through her, whether from the mushrooms or her own psyche she couldn't tell. Crack she wouldn't.

"Thank you, Ron," she smiled, and, feeling more like her old self she turned around and began rooting through the storehouse's shelves.

Ron picked up the body and dumped it behind a stack of boxes. With luck no one would know he was missing until the night watch was changed, by which time they would be out of here or dead. He to didn't look at the body, although he hastily murmured some final rites for it. Backing out swiftly he found Ysel waiting for him with a stack of torches in her arms. She'd also acquired a small crossbow and a stack of strange-looking quarrels. They glinted slightly blue in the glow of the Cleric's sword.

"Good search!" congratulated Ronald.

"Thanks," the Hobbit replied dryly.

"Ysel?" said the Cleric hesitantly.

"Yes?"

"Next time we'll bring a club and some rope," he said.

"Oh," said Ysel "That's nice of you to say that. But the truth is you won't know when we're going to need to do this again do you? Now if you don't mind I would like to get out of here."


	12. The House on the Hill

Torfindel sighed as they passed out from the warmth of the great Hall into the chilly evening air. It was pushing eight o'clock he noted from the sun's position. Wistfully he glanced out over the compound as if he could see some magical means of escape from this horrible situation if only he looked hard enough.

But no, everything was just the same as when he'd last walked this way in the late afternoon sunshine. Their six Hobbit guards still surrounded them in a loose ring, three with drawn swords, three with crossbows now. The gates had been shut, and three guards slumped idly around them. Twelve more pairs stood or walked along the walls. The compound itself was more crowded then when they'd left it, a collection of scruffy and underfed thugs all trying to intimidate the others into leaving them alone. If any of them did make a run for it, alone and unarmed, a whole crowd of the bastards, looking for a bit fun kicking a helpless escapee around'd mob them.

While he'd been thinking his gloomy thoughts they'd been rapidly crossing the square. Instead of dragging them back to their cell for the night as Torfindel had expected he noticed that their captors where leading them towards the gate. Pretzel had meant what he said when he demanded they start immediately then.

"Aww, look Torfindel, it's Smokey," cooed Carmina softly, avoiding alerting any of the others.

Torfindel glanced down at the large black cat walking beside him, and it took all of his noble's skills of self-control not to stop in shock as he recognised the look of cynical contempt Smokey always reserved for him. The cat could never respect anybody who kept a bird for a familiar, but Torfindel had never been so pleased to see the animal in his life. Before his stunned mind could begin to react however, a hulking armoured Half-Elf rose up from a nearby campfire and cleaved in the head of the nearest guard.

He heard a whiss-thunk noise and a scream from behind him, followed by a strange crackling noise. A cloaked woman who he dimly recognised as the Necromancer appeared and threw a short sword his way. The compound had erupted into chaos, people running left and right. He snatched up the weapon from the dirt. Ieannia stabbed a guard in front of his eyes, and Zorro clubbed the crossbowman from behind, felling him. The short weedy Hobbit thrown into their cell earlier spread his arms out and began to chant out a spell, but Smokey took the opportunity to sink his claws into the spell caster's leg, and the spell chant collapsed into a yowl of pain. Snarling Torfindel charged the last swordsman, who was himself stalking Urg.

Carmina snatched up her weapon, a long knife, but her guard, their sergeant, was quicker. She managed to whirl out of the way of the rapier thrust that would have plunged through her side, but was pricked slightly in the shoulder. Her own lunge with the short blade turned into a desperate parry as she found out her longer reach was cancelled out by the shortness of her blade. She was dimly aware of pandemonium behind her as the other campers scrambled to distance themselves from the battle. She lunged at the other again, but their duel was cut short by the Necromancer. She flung her last Chill Touch spell at the Hobbit, and Urg crushed his skull when he doubled over in pain.

Torfindel barely had time to swing once at the last swordsman before Ieannia and Zorro butchered him from behind. Someone screamed out a death cry, but Torfindel was distracted by a crossbow quarrel whizzing past his face. A quartet of guards on the wall had loaded up and fired, and eight more where racing down the wall steps towards the adventurers. The guards who'd been lazing by the gate too where now frantically loading crossbows. More shouts sounded behind them. The Unknown Necromancer raced up to him and gestured widely to his left. Coming towards him were horses, lead by a mounted cross-wielding Hobbit.

Crossbow bolts smacked past them. Carmina saw one glance of the armoured bulk off the Half-Elf she now recognised as the mad priest from the square. Ieannia cried out as two struck her at once, lifting her from her feet and flinging her to the ground. Instantly Zorro jerked her upright and flung her over a horse lead to him by the Necromancer. The Cleric rode past her and Carmina was scooped up and dumped with Ieannia. Ron muttered a word as they thundered for the gateway, and the Ranger's wounds closed magically. Behind them there was a roar of flame as a whole section of the wall burst into fire at Torfindel's shout. The screams of the crossbowmen as they hurled themselves aflame from the wall came too late for Urg. Twice bolts struck him as he hauled his powerful body onto a horse. He crashed to the ground, but struggled into a sitting position. As Ron cantered towards him a third quarrel found his throat, and he fell backwards and stared emptily up at the sky. Two more bolts, from the gate this time, smacked into his horse and sent it into frenzied thrashings over his fallen corpse.

Ysel fired her last electrified bolt into the chest of the third gate guardsmen as they thundered towards the barrier. Things weren't looking good. Three horses had been killed in the flight for the gate, as well as the Half-Orc. Ieannia, Carmina, Zorro and Torfindel where all injured to various degrees from those damned quarrels. Worse, the guards had barred the blasted gate. Who'd have thought such a slovenly bunch would have put up such fanatical resistance? It was only thanks to the Cleric's healing spells they hadn't lost anyone else. She hauled her horse up and slid off, glancing behind her at the line of fighters coming their way. Already the first bunch from the walls were almost upon them, and she could see that scores of Hobbits had spilled out of the house behind them. There simply wasn't time to get the main gate open.

Cursing she pawed at her armour, drawing up the key they'd taken from the unconscious Minos in shaking hands and started for the portal gate, set in the left door. Behind her, the Unknown Necromancer saw what she was doing and bellowed at the others to dismount and turn their horses. Ysel flinched as a quarrel tore past her head and dropped the key on the ground. Feeling sick with fear the hobbit scrambled frantically around for it in the dirt. Behind her the horses began to die as the party's living wall was peppered with another volley of crossbow fire. The first pursuer, a Hobbit, had just scrambled across a chestnut's corpse to meet Ieannia's sword when Ysel scooped up the key and jammed it into the lock. The well-oiled mechanism opened smoothly and they staggered out one by one to the whommsh of Torfindel's _Burning Hands_ spell as the Sorcerer cut off the gate from the pursuit behind a wall of flames.

As they charged down the street they heard the clatter of feet as the Hobbits surged for the wall steps, hoping for a lucky shot at the fugitives. Other, fresh pursuers spilt out from nearby houses bordering the main way. It was as if somebody had disturbed an ant's nest. Without a word the party turned and bolted across to the nearest side street, their breath coming out in ragged gasps. Carmina and Torfindel, the most heavily injured, swayed on their feet. Even the Necromancer, usually fleet of foot, felt her legs dragging on her like lead weights.

"This is no good!" she shouted out "There's so bloody many of them! We've got to find a place to hide! We'll never make it out without the horses unless we do!"

"Why did you bring them in?!!" howled Ieannia back.

The Ranger couldn't forget the slaughter of the trapped animals inside the walls, the memory all the worse because it could so easily have been them, and still could. The warren of Lower Wyrmling had fractured their pursuers into bands of black cloaked searchers, but they where so many they continually appeared on street corners, blocked off roads and trailed them down alleys. It was as if half of the town was after them.

"I thought the gate guards would scatter when they saw us riding at them, not bar the gates and fight to the last man! And this isn't helping us!" shouted back the wizard.

She _Flared_ a group of Hobbits who'd surged into the street in front of them, and the party scurried past them and down a cobbled lane. Behind them the Hobbits picked themselves up, and with cries of pursuit took up the chase once more. Ysel, in the lead, had covered about a quarter of the lane when she saw the other end fill up with black-cloaked enemies. The Thug began swiftly checking for other escape routes. The walls of the lane where scalable but too high. She doubted that many of them would live to reach the top by presenting themselves as such easy targets. Flying was impossible as none of them possessed anywhere near the power needed. That only left the ground, and here the Hobbit blessed the Goddess, because set in the stone was a square metal sewer lid, as usual left unsealed so local residents could pour their garbage down it.

The Hobbits had halted their pursuit, content they had the adventurers bottled up. They waited for crossbowmen to arrive and push themselves forwards. No one had any particular desire to lead a rush onto the swords of a cornered quarry. Seizing the time given to them Ysel turned around and grabbed Zorro.

"Get the lid up," she hissed at him, pointing to the grate.

Quickly the Dwarf hauled up the metal lid and unhesitatingly jumped into the darkness below. There was a roar as the Hobbits realised that their prey where escaping, and resumed their twin charges. But they where too late. The adventurers where bundled themselves inside all together. Ron, the last one inside, hurled himself onto a pile of groaning bodies and slammed the bolts home, sealing the lid shut in the snarling faces of enemy. The party braced itself for a storm of blows to the grate as their pursuers sought entry.

However instead of the pounding of swords on metal, they heard a shuffling of feet, as though a great many people where moving aside for someone. The voice that finally spoke to them then, oddly disembodied through the lid as it was, did not come as a total surprise. Its gently mocking tones where no different then they had been in his office.

"Well now, this is quite a mess you've managed to land us all in isn't it? I'm afraid that you and your companions seem to have killed or injured over a dozen of my guards Mistress Elf," said Pretzel "and I congratulate you. I had thought we could capture you back at Yaggis without any of this unpleasantness. I underestimated you all. But fear not, I won't do it again. Normally you'd be followed down there and killed of course, but I think I've lost enough valuable brothers and sisters for one day. There are only a few entrances in and out of your prison, and all the ones in our territories will be watched, mark me. And I do think it would be so much more satisfying for you to suffer the fate you've all tried so hard to avoid. Mortals, I leave you to the Ratwarrens! Farewell!"

The party looked about each other uncertainly. Then the Necromancer opened her pack and lit a torch. Under it's flickering light they stared down the dark tunnel ahead of them with trepidation. No one moved. Suddenly Torfindel caught a clear look of Ysel's face in the torchlight.

"Hang on...." he began, frowning.


End file.
